my romantic grandpa

It's been a week and a half now that I found my Grandfather dead in his home. I was coincidentally up in Northern Virginia for a lecture when my mom and I stopped by his house to bring him flowers. He was face down in the doorway to his bedroom. His dinner plate was in the sink and the television was on; he was just on his way to the bathroom when he died the night before. I felt his back and was able to remain composed for upwards of an hour to take care of my mom. There was an unopened box of kleenex sitting on the bed waiting for us.

Since my Grammy (Alma) died in 2006, his motivation and health have gone downhill. Before she died, he was still getting up on the roof (at 86!) and so on, but since then apart from having friends to the house and spending a lot of time with my folks, he's simply been waiting to reunite with her. The last few times I visited with him he's cried and it's broken my heart to know how lost he felt without her and that all he could do was wait. The last month he had been seeing her around the house, and told his friend Bo the week of his death that "when they find me, tell them to not be sad, because I will really be happy". Dying quickly at home is the way to go, and few people are afforded that luxury. I'm sad not for him, but for myself, his relatives, and my mom who is now going to have to deal with 1. not having any parents and 2. going through his house that he built with his two hands for my grandma and putting it on the market. Talking on the phone with her the other night she indicated she'd like to have the house cleared by August. It is mostly the house that I cry for. That sounds silly, but I'm sure some of you can relate.

I'm very fortunate to have had them to take care of me when my parents were working, and to show me that unconditional love and affection does not only exist, but can and should remain passionate and exciting throughout the years. It makes me feel better about my single life, because I know if I can find someone who looks at me the way they looked at each other, treats me the way they treated each other, and can make me laugh the way they were always carrying on, well then I have a pretty good chance of having my ass squeezed at family functions when I'm 85 years old.



In the aftermath, I feel very disorganized. I've been putting off dealing with it apart from a few key conversations (thank you), but I know in a few weeks I have to go up and start helping my mom prepare the house for a memorial service we'll be having in April. We're going to light up his house and play records and utilize the basement bar one last time. That's all I really can say about that right now. Back to Foucault and other shit I'm having trouble concentrating on.