It's nearly 6 am, the sun is beginning to rise and still I haven't slept one wink. This past day and a half has felt more like weeks. I have spent half the night at the hospital and the rest of this morning here, at home with my older sister and my mother; digging through tubs of photographs. Searching for photos...photos for the wake.
My grandfather passed away at exactly 11:30pm last night. And I begin to feel sick to my stomach thinking that less than 24 hours ago I was talking to him about my recent trip to Mexico, he'd asked about the food I ate there (he loved food) "Did you eat a lot of beans out there?" I hear him asking in his goofy old voice. And my mind begins to drift off...
To somewhere happier...
Now It's nearly 11 pm. It's still Monday. And I have spent the day here at home with family, with my sisters, aunt, cousins, mother and my grandmother. We spent the day in, like crabs, only opening the door for more family members or to let the dog out. And for a minute everything almost felt okay again. With my cousins here, things felt better. All of us exchanging stories, about our grandpa and the goofy things he did. Everything felt okay. Until I looked around and didn't see him falling asleep in his comfy old love seat, like usual. "Oh I'm just resting my eyes." he'd say
My grandpa was everything a grandpa was suppose to be and more. And I can't thank my grandma enough for finding such a "gentle giant." My grandpa who loved lemon meringue pie, my grandpa who called EVERYONE "darlin" my grandpa who went on for days with his life stories...even when we started falling asleep, my grandpa who still asks me what Santa brought me come Christmas time, my grandpa who was always smiling wide in every picture we dug up in those tubs.
|My Grandpa (choka)|
And after all the pictures have been dug up, all the posole has been eaten, the tears dried, and the family had gone home, I've ended up here. Alone. Next to grandpa's bed. Letting it all out. But still, holding it in. Because I would much rather be angry. Angry at God, angry at the doctors, but most of all angry at myself. For not being there with him these past three months. For not spending every second of these past two days I had, with him. For not running up to him and giving him a big old bear hug every chance I got. For not knowing he wouldn't make it from one hour to the next.
And I know you're gonna tell me "he's in a better place" and "that his pain is gone now" but to be brutally honest I don't want to believe you, because there can never be better if he's not here with us, telling us his life stories and sneaking sweets when no one's looking.
And I feel like I have been sitting here for hours, yet it's only 11:30 pm.
I hear the dish washer running in one ear while Sanctus Real's "I'm Not Alright" plays in the other ear. And this is literally the 100th time I have listened to this song. And I'm going on 101 and still I'm not sick of it. Still I haven't come to terms with him being gone. Because whenever I hear the door open, I jump up, hoping it's him walking through the door.
But it's not.
And I'm certain this is the 110th time now. It's five past twelve. It's Tuesday. And I haven't really slept since I woke up early Sunday morning. And I keep thinking that I want to wake-up, that I want to wake-up from this terrible nightmare.
And then I realize I've yet to fall asleep.
|R.I.P Charles Maddux May 22, 2011|