I wrote this on Friday, and for honesty's sake (and because I actually find it pretty funny, especially because the EXACT same thing happened to mi madre in the same circumstances) I'm posting it now.
"I'm sitting in my soon-to-be sewing room in a plaid shirt and jeans, tools spread around me, in tears. I miss my Granddaddy. He should be here, helping me put this desk together. He should have been here to help us pick the neighbourhood in which to settle, and to call when the offer was accepted on the one house that most mirrors the one he built my grandmother and that I grew up in.
I'm sad, and I'm angry. I'm angry at myself for moving away and missing the last four years of his life. I'm angry that my situation in the UK kept me from seeing him when he decided to stop taking the pills that were keeping him alive, and I'm angry that the same situation kept me from being at his funeral. I'm sad that he died before he could walk me down the aisle, and that he'll never see his grandchildren (which is most aggravated by the fact that my sewing room is still decorated with the baby wallpaper from the little boy who lived in this house before we bought it), and that my friends and family in the UK will never know him.
I'm angry at myself because I still haven't managed to force myself to visit his grave.
He's the only daddy I've ever had. He taught me how to use the tools spread around me, most often by letting me use them incorrectly the first time and then when I turned to him in utter frustration by saying "well, you won't do it that way again, now will you?" He loved me unconditionally, even when my temper and impatience had me saying horrible things to him. His sense of humour became my sense of humour, to the chagrin of those around me now (except the BFG, who would have delighted in all that was Granddaddy).
I talk about him all the time. I still think in my head "I need to call Granddaddy" at the most random moments. Passing the hot dog van outside of the hardware store, when my "hot biscuit" bush blooms, seeing a Smart car in the street, and most recently, putting together this damnable desk. Then, it hits me that I can't, and that I'll never be able to again.
I miss him so much, it hurts. So I sit here, my eyes so full of tears I can barely see the screen, and hope that some day the hormones will fade enough for me to be able to put flat pack together without bawling my eyes out."
"I'm sitting in my soon-to-be sewing room in a plaid shirt and jeans, tools spread around me, in tears. I miss my Granddaddy. He should be here, helping me put this desk together. He should have been here to help us pick the neighbourhood in which to settle, and to call when the offer was accepted on the one house that most mirrors the one he built my grandmother and that I grew up in.
I'm sad, and I'm angry. I'm angry at myself for moving away and missing the last four years of his life. I'm angry that my situation in the UK kept me from seeing him when he decided to stop taking the pills that were keeping him alive, and I'm angry that the same situation kept me from being at his funeral. I'm sad that he died before he could walk me down the aisle, and that he'll never see his grandchildren (which is most aggravated by the fact that my sewing room is still decorated with the baby wallpaper from the little boy who lived in this house before we bought it), and that my friends and family in the UK will never know him.
I'm angry at myself because I still haven't managed to force myself to visit his grave.
He's the only daddy I've ever had. He taught me how to use the tools spread around me, most often by letting me use them incorrectly the first time and then when I turned to him in utter frustration by saying "well, you won't do it that way again, now will you?" He loved me unconditionally, even when my temper and impatience had me saying horrible things to him. His sense of humour became my sense of humour, to the chagrin of those around me now (except the BFG, who would have delighted in all that was Granddaddy).
I talk about him all the time. I still think in my head "I need to call Granddaddy" at the most random moments. Passing the hot dog van outside of the hardware store, when my "hot biscuit" bush blooms, seeing a Smart car in the street, and most recently, putting together this damnable desk. Then, it hits me that I can't, and that I'll never be able to again.
I miss him so much, it hurts. So I sit here, my eyes so full of tears I can barely see the screen, and hope that some day the hormones will fade enough for me to be able to put flat pack together without bawling my eyes out."
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