Loss Lessons -- Worry as Love
My grandpa's eyebrows furrowed when he worried about me.
Long white hairs lowered down to intense eyes --
Bright, light green eyes --
And his voice was higher and pained.
Emotions poured through lips that alternated
From smile to frown to smile to frown.
Most of the time he was worried about small things --
How I was doing in Math,
Why I hadn't visited him in a few days,
Or why I didn't have a heavier coat on.
But as I got older, my issues got more intense --
And so did his worry.
Why was someone bullying me?
What was I going to do with my life?
How would I heal from that breakup?
I think my grandpa worried about me the most during that time of his life.
I think he worried about me more than he worried about himself.
He told me "The only person you can trust is yourself,"
And encouraged me to rid my life of anyone that treated me badly.
He himself spent most of his time at home.
My grandma brought him his dinner.
They each had their own TVs -- he with his headphones --
And he sat outside in the morning and early afternoon listening to the radio.
Doooooooooooooooooooooooooooo -- DOO!
He loved to listen to Rush Limbaugh.
I think anxiety was what he knew.
But anxiety was how he had been shown love.
His mom put him in church everyday.
It was the uncertainty of the Great Depression and its aftermath
And my grandpa never forgave her for giving so much money to the church.
"I could've had some good shoes."
And we're not talking about anything fancy.
I never saw my grandpa dressed up.
He wore work pants (gray or navy Dockers, I think they were) with a belt,
A T-shirt (and often a sweatshirt with it),
A ball cap if he was outside,
And whatever shoes he got for Christmas from my uncle --
Which were sneakers that were big enough for his Size 14 feet.
He loved to cut the backs of his shoes too
So they didn't hurt his swollen feet.
His feet were always red and swollen --
He said they burned --
They were run over in an accident at work
And I doubt he ever received medical attention.
He didn't worry about himself ever --
But he worried his heart out over the ones he loved.
He never let my grandma pump her own gas.
She'd let him know when she was running low
And he'd go and get it for her at the end of our street.
Our street --
My parents, my brother, and I lived next door to my grandparents.
When my great-grandma, my grandpa's mother passed,
We moved in and became my grandparents' neighbors.
I remember looking at the spiral texture on the walls
The first night sleeping there.
I think I was just about to turn five.
I remember cringing over plants sprouting
Up from the cracks of the tiles in the bathroom.
But this house was built with hands --
The hands of my great grandpa, my grandpa's dad.
And though it was small, it was solid and cool.
My dad inherited craftsmanship --
And worry --
And a middle name --
From his father,
And the bathroom was completely redone,
Other small things were fixed,
And the house was home.
There was some pressure on us to visit our grandparents often
After moving next door.
We loved visiting them and did it often,
But sometimes we were with friends
Or were reading
Or just forgot.
We were compared to our cousins --
Who lived on the other side of town --
Who my grandma saw nearly everyday
Because she babysat them.
So I made sure to spend as much time with them as I could.
"You never know how long you'll have with them,"
My mother said.
Her mom passed before I was born,
And her dad passed when I was in fifth grade --
We remember only glimpses of his descent into Alzheimer's disease --
Using the remote to try to call his brother
Going to Bob Evans with him days in a row
Not knowing where he was
Because it was before cell phones
And he had forgotten how to drive home.
But my Grandpa on my dad's side
Experienced a much different descent.
The last time I saw him
He didn't seem to want to talk to me much.
That was so uncharacteristic of him.
The few words he did want to share
Were of his disappointment in me.
He knew to worry about my own descent (or would it be dissent?)
Into muddier ideas,
Greyer than a solid black line over white.
But his worry slowly began to morph
Into anger.
He was angry with me for not voting for Trump.
He was angry with me for going past his advice.
And I wasn't sure how he'd found me out.
I don't know who told him.
I never brought it up with him or told my grandma
I may never know who told him.
The truth was very important to my grandpa.
I think it's because he never wanted to be used.
He saw what he determined to be the use of his mom
For the church they went to.
I believe him.
I think he was afraid that I'd be sucked into an ideology, too.
That's why terms like "no spin zone" and "those bad guys" resonated.
He had a clear view of a version of a right and of a wrong
And he had a heart for doing what was right.
But because of that,
Towards the end of his life, I was part demon Hilary Clinton
And part the sunshine in his life.
At times, I was an enemy,
Others, I became the tangible truth.
I saw him resurface when I'd grab his hand
Kiss his forehead
Pull his bony shoulders into a semblance of a hug.
He had been in bed for too long. Three years.
Too long for working hands, a worrying mind.
If I was farther away, it was easier to worry.
Me living in "Buffalo" as he called it (Bluffton)
Made it easier for him to worry about me.
And just sitting across the room
Made it easier to separate my new openness
From me.
"She's a Democrat, Donny," he told my grandma, Donna,
"They sent the IRS after me and put me in this bed from the stress."
And he truly believed it, eyes pleading with me.
He felt a hurt that I so wanted to take away.
When I grew closer, his eyes lit up.
He relaxed.
"Oh stop," I'd tell him with an exasperated sigh
That'd turned into a laugh.
"I'm not a Democrat or a Republican.
I'm Lauren.
I don't like politics,
But I love you, Grampy."
"Oh I love you MORE" he'd plead.
He did a lot of pleading.
"Butterfly kisses," he'd mention,
Soft smile choking on tears --
This was something I wasn't used to --
"I'll always remember when you were a little girl."
And somehow, his love turned me back into a little girl.
I didn't harbor anything threatening.
I needed help and advice and love.
But I don't believe I've changed much --
Really --
From that little girl that he loved so much.
That girl wanted only a few things --
She wanted to love others
And wanted to do the right thing
And wanted to learn and to be valuable.
And yes, that girl needed him.
My grandpa, with his worried, loving face,
Showed me that I did love others, I did do the right thing,
I was learning, and I was valuable.
There was a duality that existed for a while,
But in the end, it was that version of my grandpa that triumphed.
It was that version of my grandpa that he was.
Worrying about me,
And loving me.
I will miss him more than words can explain.
Long white hairs lowered down to intense eyes --
Bright, light green eyes --
And his voice was higher and pained.
Emotions poured through lips that alternated
From smile to frown to smile to frown.
Most of the time he was worried about small things --
How I was doing in Math,
Why I hadn't visited him in a few days,
Or why I didn't have a heavier coat on.
But as I got older, my issues got more intense --
And so did his worry.
Why was someone bullying me?
What was I going to do with my life?
How would I heal from that breakup?
I think my grandpa worried about me the most during that time of his life.
I think he worried about me more than he worried about himself.
He told me "The only person you can trust is yourself,"
And encouraged me to rid my life of anyone that treated me badly.
He himself spent most of his time at home.
My grandma brought him his dinner.
They each had their own TVs -- he with his headphones --
And he sat outside in the morning and early afternoon listening to the radio.
Doooooooooooooooooooooooooooo -- DOO!
He loved to listen to Rush Limbaugh.
I think anxiety was what he knew.
But anxiety was how he had been shown love.
His mom put him in church everyday.
It was the uncertainty of the Great Depression and its aftermath
And my grandpa never forgave her for giving so much money to the church.
"I could've had some good shoes."
And we're not talking about anything fancy.
I never saw my grandpa dressed up.
He wore work pants (gray or navy Dockers, I think they were) with a belt,
A T-shirt (and often a sweatshirt with it),
A ball cap if he was outside,
And whatever shoes he got for Christmas from my uncle --
Which were sneakers that were big enough for his Size 14 feet.
He loved to cut the backs of his shoes too
So they didn't hurt his swollen feet.
His feet were always red and swollen --
He said they burned --
They were run over in an accident at work
And I doubt he ever received medical attention.
He didn't worry about himself ever --
But he worried his heart out over the ones he loved.
He never let my grandma pump her own gas.
She'd let him know when she was running low
And he'd go and get it for her at the end of our street.
Our street --
My parents, my brother, and I lived next door to my grandparents.
When my great-grandma, my grandpa's mother passed,
We moved in and became my grandparents' neighbors.
I remember looking at the spiral texture on the walls
The first night sleeping there.
I think I was just about to turn five.
I remember cringing over plants sprouting
Up from the cracks of the tiles in the bathroom.
But this house was built with hands --
The hands of my great grandpa, my grandpa's dad.
And though it was small, it was solid and cool.
My dad inherited craftsmanship --
And worry --
And a middle name --
From his father,
And the bathroom was completely redone,
Other small things were fixed,
And the house was home.
There was some pressure on us to visit our grandparents often
After moving next door.
We loved visiting them and did it often,
But sometimes we were with friends
Or were reading
Or just forgot.
We were compared to our cousins --
Who lived on the other side of town --
Who my grandma saw nearly everyday
Because she babysat them.
So I made sure to spend as much time with them as I could.
"You never know how long you'll have with them,"
My mother said.
Her mom passed before I was born,
And her dad passed when I was in fifth grade --
We remember only glimpses of his descent into Alzheimer's disease --
Using the remote to try to call his brother
Going to Bob Evans with him days in a row
Not knowing where he was
Because it was before cell phones
And he had forgotten how to drive home.
But my Grandpa on my dad's side
Experienced a much different descent.
The last time I saw him
He didn't seem to want to talk to me much.
That was so uncharacteristic of him.
The few words he did want to share
Were of his disappointment in me.
He knew to worry about my own descent (or would it be dissent?)
Into muddier ideas,
Greyer than a solid black line over white.
But his worry slowly began to morph
Into anger.
He was angry with me for not voting for Trump.
He was angry with me for going past his advice.
And I wasn't sure how he'd found me out.
I don't know who told him.
I never brought it up with him or told my grandma
I may never know who told him.
The truth was very important to my grandpa.
I think it's because he never wanted to be used.
He saw what he determined to be the use of his mom
For the church they went to.
I believe him.
I think he was afraid that I'd be sucked into an ideology, too.
That's why terms like "no spin zone" and "those bad guys" resonated.
He had a clear view of a version of a right and of a wrong
And he had a heart for doing what was right.
But because of that,
Towards the end of his life, I was part demon Hilary Clinton
And part the sunshine in his life.
At times, I was an enemy,
Others, I became the tangible truth.
I saw him resurface when I'd grab his hand
Kiss his forehead
Pull his bony shoulders into a semblance of a hug.
He had been in bed for too long. Three years.
Too long for working hands, a worrying mind.
If I was farther away, it was easier to worry.
Me living in "Buffalo" as he called it (Bluffton)
Made it easier for him to worry about me.
And just sitting across the room
Made it easier to separate my new openness
From me.
"She's a Democrat, Donny," he told my grandma, Donna,
"They sent the IRS after me and put me in this bed from the stress."
And he truly believed it, eyes pleading with me.
He felt a hurt that I so wanted to take away.
When I grew closer, his eyes lit up.
He relaxed.
"Oh stop," I'd tell him with an exasperated sigh
That'd turned into a laugh.
"I'm not a Democrat or a Republican.
I'm Lauren.
I don't like politics,
But I love you, Grampy."
"Oh I love you MORE" he'd plead.
He did a lot of pleading.
"Butterfly kisses," he'd mention,
Soft smile choking on tears --
This was something I wasn't used to --
"I'll always remember when you were a little girl."
And somehow, his love turned me back into a little girl.
I didn't harbor anything threatening.
I needed help and advice and love.
But I don't believe I've changed much --
Really --
From that little girl that he loved so much.
That girl wanted only a few things --
She wanted to love others
And wanted to do the right thing
And wanted to learn and to be valuable.
And yes, that girl needed him.
My grandpa, with his worried, loving face,
Showed me that I did love others, I did do the right thing,
I was learning, and I was valuable.
There was a duality that existed for a while,
But in the end, it was that version of my grandpa that triumphed.
It was that version of my grandpa that he was.
Worrying about me,
And loving me.
I will miss him more than words can explain.
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