Dear Grandpa,
Yesterday would have been your birthday if you’d wanted to live this long. Surprisingly, I didn’t remember yesterday was your birthday until today. I don’t whether that makes me a bad grandchild or whether it means I’m starting to heal or maybe a combination of both. I do know that three years after your death I think of you and miss you often. We recently ordered digital prints of the first year of life for me, Ryan and Caroline. There are photographed moments that I try to turn into memories, but I know I was too little. In my little face, and in your young smile, I can tell how much I loved you and how much you loved me. And I miss you.
I’ll never quite know on a deeper level why you left us. I also don’t know where you are, where your soul rests. I like to believe that altar boy in you went back to Jesus. I’m glad the church now knows that suicide is a sickness, not a sin. I’ll never know what you believed in those moments at the end. And i’ll never stop thinking about the things I could have done to stop you, though I don’t think there are any, as much as I want to pin this guilt on me. Blame brings closure. I don’t know if family ever gets closure.
I now use my lawyer skills in a way I wish I didn’t have to – I fight for your rights from your asbestos settlement. And that’s not what brings these feelings to the surface. They rush in like high tide coming early, washing over a stunned child sitting in her beach chair.
I like to think that somewhere you’re reading this and that you’re proud of me. I want you to know how much I miss you, and I don’t want you to feel guilty. I don’t have to feel guilty, and neither do you, but I’m allowed to be angry and sad, because that’s how survivor’s guilt feels. In a way, your choice has saved my life. But I’d give anything to have you back.
kDe
After the Semicolon 