It was the last day of fourth grade. The rain was coming down in torrents throughout Minnesota, and down into Iowa. The day was gloomy, but it still seemed normal. In fact, exciting. Summer had finally arrived! But the rain didn't stop. Not even for a moment. It carried into the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that.
It was all happening so quickly. I didn't understand what was going on. I knew something was wrong, but I still couldn't seem to wrap my head around it all. It was around 11:30 am when we got the call that Grandpa wasn't going to make it. We needed to get to him as soon as possible. The first day of summer didn't exactly go as planned.
I sat in the waiting room, and I figured out that day why it's called a waiting room... I didn't know hardly anyone who was there with me, but many of them knew me. Apparently Grandpa liked to brag.
He was unconscious. His skull was cracked and he wore a helmet. His skin had paled. He was Grandpa, but he wasn't Grandpa. I didn't want to see him... I wanted to remember Grandpa at his best.
Through the years, I've always remembered Grandpa at his best. The way he would have wanted me to remember him. He was a devoted fan of the Iowa Hawkeyes, and he loved Chevy almost as much. A blue-collar worker, and a hard worker at that. Crazily competitive. He was a good, honest man. I knew him for a short time, but I still knew that he was an amazing man. Anything I could say about him now would be an injustice.
It took about six months for me to finally crumble. Right when he died, I was a rock while everyone else had gone to pebbles. I had to be a rock. I had to stay solid. Through those first six months, while my family tried to build themselves back up to rocks, I started to crumble into a pile of pebbles, myself. Everyone else was okay. I was finally allowed to start grieving.
When I was scrolling through my Instagram feed the other day, I saw a very touching post from one of my friends. She told the story of how she lost her mother eight years ago. It all broke my heart... But nothing broke me more than when she revealed that she cannot remember what her mother sounds like.
I sat there holding my phone, thinking and thinking. Digging deep into my brain. Flipping over the cushions, looking under the furniture, opening the cabinets, rummaging through drawers. I couldn't find it. I couldn't find his voice. I couldn't remember what he sounded like.
This devastated me. I never thought I would forget my grandpa's voice. When I was younger, I had told myself that I wouldn't ever forget. Never. No. How could I? He was my grandpa. He was there for my birthdays and for Christmases. I loved him and I would never forget what he sounded like.
I spent an hour on the phone with my partner, bawling my eyes out. Rage mixed with depression and anxiety and just utter frustration coursed through me. How could I? How the hell could I forget? What is the matter with me? This isn't right. I promised myself... How could I break my own promise?
All of those emotions tumbled together and turned into sheer devastation. I couldn't believe it. It took eight long years to forget his voice, but I forgot it. Through the homework and tests; the travels and trips; the dates and the kisses; the laughs and the arguments. Through it all, I forgot what he sounds like. As I'm writing all of this out, I can't help but hate myself all over again for not remembering what he sounds like. Not his laugh. Not his goodbye kisses. None of it. I see his mouth moving, but my ears have gone deaf.
When I was nine, I gave all of my grandparents little guardian angel coins. On the one side, the coin said, "Watching Over Grandma/pa." On the other, it said, "Each day and all night through, a guardian angel is watching over you." Grandpa kept this coin in his pocket. Every single day. It had grown worn around the edges as he flipped it around when he put his hand in his pocket. My grandma found it in his pocket the day he died.
That very night, I was given the coin. I held in in my hands for a while, and then put it on the nightstand next to the bed while I slept. Later in the summer, I drilled a hole in the top and put the coin on a necklace chain. I wore it every single day for the next few years. But then I grew fearful of losing it. (I'm an expert at losing things.) So now I keep it in my jewelry box. Right on the top. That's something I won't ever forget. I'll forget the way he sounded, the way he looked, even the way he was, but I won't ever forget about that coin.
