I feel I need to tell this story now. I've been sitting here, listening to Sarah McLachlan whose music always strikes at my heart. As Angel came on, the one song that can almost always make me cry, I'm glancing around the room and my eyes fall on my grandpa's hat. I still can't picture his face or anything about him without starting to cry. I've been trying to let go for 4 years and despite my best efforts, I still haven't been able to. He died when he was 86- a ripe old age, especially since he chain smoked. I hated how that whole house smelled like smoke but I miss it now.
He died in a November- one of the reasons I count my years in Novembers, not by my birthday or by the new year or anything. It's weird but I have my reasons. But I'm getting ahead of myself. To tell the story fully, I need to start with how he lived. Maybe then you can understand a little better.
My grandfather loved baseball. He was offered a place in major league baseball when he was younger but he turned it down and ended up in WWII in stead. He worked at Guadalcanal, fixing planes as they came down damaged. He stayed safe, though, for which I am always thankful for, and settled down with his wife and 7 children. He was the only one in the family that brought in money and that money was little as he worked in a factory. So they grew up with next to nothing.
He was always an amazing man though. In my family there are two things that are, I believe, half genetic- a bad temper and a love of others. My grandfather is the one that brought the second one (not to say that my grandma isn't an awesome lady). He was a staunch democrat, helped out anyone that needed it, and loved the enormous family that sprouted up around him. He also loved gardening which is the reason green beans taste like Western NY and didn't even stop it when he lost most of his eyesight to disease. I can still picture him sitting in his Buffalo Bills chair, eyes inches away from the TV. He even still did crossword puzzles in the morning. For the life of me, I can't remember how.
There are so many other things but I feel that I need to keep some memories as mine.
Eventually he ended up in the hospital again. I didn't think of it at the time. He had always pulled through.
Then one day he called my father and asked him to ask me to pray for him because I was a "good kid". That was the last time my dad spoke to him.
I tried, honest to God I tried but...I couldn't. I've never been raised religiously and I didn't even believe in God at the time but I felt I had to for him. I wanted to so bad. I wanted to help him. I tried my hardest but...he died a week later. And, contrary to all my beliefs and to all that I try to tell myself, I still blame myself. I wish I had tried harder. I know I shouldn't blame myself...but I do.
It hit the whole family hard and we've never been the same. He was the leader. He held us together. I miss him so much. I miss him every time I remember he's gone. I believe his spirit visits us from time to time and that's the one thing that gives me hope. I'm sure he doesn't blame me and I want to not blame me too. I think telling this story helps though.

(I can't change my mood for some reason but it's certainly not rant)