At the strangest times, I'm confronted with missing my grandfather. Over the past two years, he'd become such a daily, albeit long distance, part of my life that I still find myself wanting to call him to share something with him. It stung to realize that it's Passover and that there is nobody to call to wish a happy holiday to, nor anyone to talk with about my plans to make matzoh ball soup (or to beg for some red horseradish). With his great-granddaughter's first loose tooth coming along a couple of days ago, it reflexively occurred to me while making dinner tonight that we hadn't passed the information on to him and that I should call. He'll never know about the latest silly things that the kids have done, nor the latest adventures we've planned. Maybe I would have had more closure if I'd been able to attend the funeral, but these little things keep hitting me, and, though they're not overwhelming, they still hurt a bit and throw me off of my rhythm.
I think he'd be pleased to know that we're taking a huge road trip to spend a lot of time with family this summer. I'm just disappointed (and I think he would be, too) that his death occasioned it.
