He's Probably Smiling Anyway

Prepare yourself for the ramble of the century because I’m emotional and tired. That is never a good combination.

Every person you have ever come into contact with has created you. There’s no two ways around it: your nuances, turn of phrase, entire outlook on life, can be shaped by your peers, your acquaintances, your family. How they view your existence is wholly wrapped in these things. Without other people, it is possible to lose your own identity. Essentially, you become their projections (this is why it is imperative to surround yourself with positive, uplifting people).  

Consequently, when one of those people is taken away from you, lost, or otherwise removed from your life, you lose the part of yourself that was found in that person. As the anniversary of my Grandpa’s death approaches, I’m realizing that a part of me has been gone for almost an entire year as well.

My Mom married my Dad when I was 4 years old. Right out of the gate I called him Dad, adopted his last name, and spent time doing fatherly-daughterly things like getting puppies and riding bikes. Much in the same way, his dad dove in with both feet. I never got to meet my Mom’s Dad, so Grandpa Mike was the only Grandfather I ever had. Even though I came into the picture a little later, he never wavered. He accepted me with open arms, cans of Chef-Boyardee, and way too many gifts on Christmas morning.

I’ll forever miss his off colored jokes; the way his Christmas gift selections would vacillate between wildly inappropriate and incredibly touching and useful; how he wore ladies sunglasses and we never told him; the way his apartment was littered with half finished crossword puzzle books; knowing he was always good for episodes of Law & Order or Seinfeld... or Judge Judy; shopping on Christmas Eve followed by Mexican food; the classical music in his car turned up way too loudly; his daily email with said off-colored joke, and the way he used to experiment with different fonts, text colors, and sizes because I’m pretty sure it made him feel tech savvy; sitting out on his back porch listening to NPR; the stories he used to tell me of his days at the Plain Dealer or working for the State of Ohio; the way he was gruff about agreeing to go to our sports games or piano recitals but never missed a single one; finding pumpkins to carve on Halloween; knowing not to call after 6:30pm because he was probably already asleep; cribbage; …I’m sad he only got a year with my son, and half of that time he was too sick to hold him.

Will the list of things I miss about him ever end? Probably not. So the only thing left to do is honor the life he had as a means of rebuilding what you have lost.

He left behind a drive in me to see the lighter side of life, to create an eternal goodwill amongst my friends and family, to be giving and providing, but most importantly, to earnestly love those who matter and simply forget those who don’t. And to always, always laugh.