I spent yesterday afternoon with my newly widowed grandmother and I’m at a loss for words when it comes to the grief we all feel. There’s something special about grandparents, all grandparents, but especially grandparents with whom you’ve spent a lot of time. You see that tower in the background? I take my own daughter to that tower all the time, as they did when I was a young girl.
My grandparents, both equally as amazing as the other to me, have taught me so much. They cared for me a lot when I was a baby and young child and even throughout my childhood as I spent weeks in the summer at their Cape May house. I ditched my friends on spring break one year while they went to Cancun and spent it with them at their house in Florida.
Nothing will ever ever fill the hole that is left. He would have been 90 on the 20th and no one thought he wouldn’t be here to celebrate it. If he were at his 90th birthday, I would thank him for the many days and nights he played with me, the many books he read to me, the dollhouse he made for me, each shingle by hand, for the way he taught me about physics and engineering, whether boring or not, and most of all, that infamous bear hug of his with a hard thump at the end that knocked the breath from your lungs. Pop Pop, you meant so much to me; I have the most cherished childhood memories of spending time with you at the farmhouse that you took so much pride in caring for, splashing in the pool and cutting down our Christmas trees from the saplings you planted. I will miss your Irish brohg but most of all, those hugs.