for my dead grandpa.
a letter I wish I could send to him--but I can't so I'm posting it on my stupid blog instead.
Grandpa,
I hope this letter finds you well. I wish I sent this earlier, but I don't know what your new address is.
So, it's been a rough year. You, of course, died at the beginning of it which really did start things off sourly. Then, AP Calculus 12 kicked my ass so badly I dropped it. A few of my friends broke up (I'm actually quite happy about a few of those breakups). I feel stressed and anxious constantly without you to talk about it. And now I'm here, in my bedroom, writing a letter to a dead person and publishing it online.
I know that if you were here, you'd probably be asking me to help you open Gmail on your computer or watching reruns of Law & Order for the nth time. It's weird; I come home and open the door to your mancave and a part of me is still surprised to find your absence. We moved a bunch of junk and the treadmill in your room, since mom was tired of the racket it made. Sometimes I'll be walking on it for hours, to nowhere in particular, and I swear I can still hear, smell, and feel you right there.
And I want to believe you're still here. In one of our rare serious conversations--just a few days after you died--dad told me that he doesn't think heaven is a tangible plane of existence as commonly believed. He thinks that the afterlife is spent here on earth, in the people you've impacted during your lifetime. Heaven is your legacy, basically. I think you'd like that idea since sitting around with God up there, as lovely as that might be, seems too boring for someone like you.
I've been thinking about that night a lot. The night you fell in the driveway and hit your head. I was just in my bedroom when it happened when mom, panicked, called me down to find you bleeding on the concrete. I keep replaying it in my head, wondering if I could've gotten to you sooner, turned the driveway lights on for you to see where you were walking, done something--anything--differently. I know you'd probably tell me that "what's done is done" and to stop beating myself up over things I can't change. I know you don't want this to be a memory that defines the time we shared together. I can't help it. I miss you so much that the guilt feels like the only thing connecting us sometimes.
You weren't even my biological grandfather, but you loved me like I was your own blood. Not once, not a single time, did you ever make me feel like I was anything less than your grandson. You never introduced me as your "step-grandson" or whatever. I was just your Rango, and you were my grandpa. How does someone find that kind of love again?
I never told you this, but you were the kind of man I've always wanted to be. Not because you were perfect--God knows you weren't, especially behind the wheel--but because you were good in all the ways that matter. Smart without being condescending. Kind without expecting anything in return. You had this unwavering sense of justice, always standing up for the underdog and trailblazing a path for people like us in an unjust society. And despite everything you'd seen and been through, you never lost that whimsy and joy that made you laugh at anything and everything. You showed me that masculinity doesn't have to be harsh, dominating, cold, or distant--it can be warm, compassionate, and sometimes ridiculous.
I miss so many things about you, and in a way, I'm afraid I took them for granted. I miss the way you'd clip newspaper articles about scientific breakthroughs, social justice issues, or global politics or even just funny comics you thought I'd like. I miss your stories, even the ones that never seemed to have a point or would take so many detours I'd forget what we were talking about in the first place. I miss how you'd always say "I'm here" whenever someone asked how you were doing. Not "good" or "fine" like everyone else. Every day was borrowed time, and you never took a single minute for granted. You were just grateful to still be here with us, still driving like an ass.
And speaking of your driving, the one thing I don't miss was the time I was in the passenger seat of your red Nissan. We were going to Uncle Rusty's office in the winter and you accidentally swerved into the sidewalk and almost hit a pedestrian. Dad and mom never let you drive me anywhere after that.
I wish I could tell you that I got into my top choice engineering school. You always said I had "too many brains for my own good" and should "do something that matters." I'm going to try, Grandpa. I really am. When I graduate high school in June, I'm going to wear your old plaid tie and your cologne, so you'll still be with me when I cross the stage. Even if you're not there in the flesh, the world deserves to know what kind of man you were to me.
Going back to what dad said about heaven being your legacy, about how you live on in the people whose lives you touched. If that's true, then you're everywhere, Grandpa. You're in the way I stand up for people and causes I care about, just like you taught me. You're in the careful way I measure twice before cutting once. You're in how I always hold the door for strangers and remember to enjoy the time with my friends and never leave a room without saying goodbye. You're in the goodness of the family I've met through you: your kids who always invite me over for dinner, your youngest son who holds more love for me than I can ever repay back, your other grandkids who inspire me everyday.
I hope that's enough. I hope I'm enough to carry a piece of your heaven forward. I'm trying my best, even on the days when I mess up or forget or get too caught up in my own head.
I hope wherever you are, they have decent wine and plenty of hockey replays.
Your seat at the dinner table will always be there for you, in case you ever want to join us again.
Yours,
Rango