Grandpa

I didn’t know my grandfather very well; I was only six-years-old when he died. And even before that, physical handicaps prevented him from communicating, so I only knew him from a distance. I felt awkward around him as a little girl. I couldn’t remember what he was like “before.” I only knew him as he was—no fingers because of a firecracker, and no feeling because of a stroke. My grandmother had to feed him, help him get to the bathroom, and wipe the drool from his chin. But she loved him just the same. Everyone loved him. They loved him now, and they loved the man he was even more. But I didn’t know. Something within me told me I loved him; I’m sure I did. He was my grandfather for goodness sake. Then he was gone. I got a new dress to wear to the funeral. It was pretty. I still have it. But my excitement over the dress faded as we arrived at the funeral. I didn’t know what I felt when we got there. Then we approached the coffin, and I still didn’t know. My mind was racing. Everyone was crying—everyone but me. Why? I didn’t know. I must have loved him, I know I did. I wanted to cry to show my love, but I couldn’t. My dad lifted me up to see him. He was different—plastic-like. It wasn’t the grandpa I knew. He was different then what I knew. I guess I did know part of him. I was only six when he died, but he is still my grandpa and I knew him. I just couldn’t cry; that’s all.

Tears streamed,
But my cheeks were dry.
Others mourned,
But I felt pretty.
I didn’t know,
But I still loved him.