So I realized this past Saturday (July 19th) that I’m not over my grandfather’s death at all. My step-dad and I had gone over to my grandmother’s house to mow the grass since she was out of town, and as I was standing in the garage looking at my grandfather’s old lawnmower I just about lost it. My eyes teared up and I was barely able to hold it in.
I don’t know quite what came over me but all I could think about was the original heart-attack that started him on his rapid downward spiral toward death. It had happened in his garage and all I could think about was him dropping to the floor and trying to yell for my grandmother.
Then the good old memories of him giving us rides on the riding lawnmower back in Florida when we were kids, letting us ride in the back of his truck, all of those things just kept flooding my brain.
I never really did talk much to anyone about his death last year; just the usual things to get people off your back and stop bugging you. I don’t think I conciously avoided it but I sort of feel guilty for some reason. I don’t know, I’m weird.
As I sit here in tears writing this I’m feeling a little better, but I think it is going to take a lot more time for me to accept the fact that he really is gone. I thought I had, but I was only fooling myself. Maybe I’ll go out to his grave this week or something, I think I’d like that. Just me and him, like when we’d go see the trains or go watch the planes at the airport. Ugh, this bites.