Today in class a girl talked about how she was always interested in her family's history, and how they have lived in San Francisco (in the same house) for more than 10 generations. She said that when her grandfather (then 97 years old) got sick, she knew he wouldn't be around for much longer, and so she got her notebook and decided to get from him all the information she could. He has been alive for most of the century, and she wanted to know everything there was to know before she missed her chance and he passed away, carrying with him all the knowledge that only himself could bring into this world.
It made me think of my own grandfather. He passed away a couple of months ago, and he was one of the smartest people I've ever known. I usually say he was a walking encyclopedia, but he was so much more than that, really. I often thought about talking to him about our history, and not just rely on my mother's version of the facts. I've always wanted to share a little piece of his knowledge, of his story. He had lived so much, gone through so many things! I remember the tales he used to tell us kids, and they were nothing like your ordinary tales: they were magical, and yet realistic. The kind that scares you to death and at the same time makes you wonder if it was really a tale, or if it had happened. He has a story for everything, a good one. But then he got sick, and I didn't call. Mostly because I was certain that he knew I loved him, and partially because I was never good at this. I thought he would recover, yes, but even after I knew he wouldn't, I didn't call. And that was one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made. There was so much about him that I never got to ask. And he died without me having the chance to know it all, without me asking for it. Did he think I didn't care? Did he not know how amazing his stories were, how much I loved his jokes, how much I admired and loved him? I guess I'll never know. And that's what hurts the most: not the fact that our family history is lost, but the fact that my grandpa's history is. The fact that he never sat down to tell me about himself. The fact that my little sister won't remember what a great man he was, and how much he loved her.
I should have called. I should have said the things I thought he knew. I should have chosen to be present, instead of distant. How I wish I had another chance. Sometimes I dream of him... in the dream I know he's about to die, and I hug him and think: "I know this is the last time, so I'll make the most of it". When I wake up I always feel a little better, and a little worse at the same time. If there is any kind of life after death, I hope he reads my blog.
