Dear Grandpa
You died yesterday. Yesterday many yesterdays ago. I don't remember how long ago you passed, because I never met you. My mother, the youngest of four, was so young when you died. She had not yet met my father, and I was but a dream of future times, of days to come and lives to live one day. So it was that fatal Boxing Day that a part of my life ended before my life itself had even begun.
My mother, and aunts and uncle, often spoke of you. Never to complain, only comments of sadness lingering after all those years. They missed you still, anyone could see. My mother often talked about how you'd come home from work and give gifts- a hug for the children, a kiss for your wife. She said after they were sent to bed by my grandmother, you'd come in and play songs on your mouth organ, and they'd sing along cheerily, bedtime forgotten. Her and her siblings often mentioned the little ditties you taught them to play on the piano- cheery little tunes with no sadness or longing piercing their core, just a few fingers meandering happily along the keys.
The only time I think they ever criticised you was when they'd mention your drinking. They said that you would go to the pub after work and be there for hours, drowning yourself in beer. You'd stagger through the doors of their little home and mumble your drunken apologies, but always be on time to see all of them off to bed (mouth organ in hand, of course). I never let these comments of alcoholism tarnish my image of my grandpa- I had never met you, so I was quite unable to criticise. But still I find a way.
Maybe if you weren't an alcoholic, you wouldn't have been admitted to hospital with heart failure. You wouldn't have died. You would have lived long enough to see me, the youngest of your grand kids, and all of the others before me. You would have met your son's son, who shares your name as a mark of respect for the grandfather he never knew. You might have met your great grand kids, your granddaughter's children. You could have walked my mother down the aisle to marry my father. You could have held her hand when she left him later. You might have let my aunt keep the baby that my grandmother wouldn't let her keep. A thousand maybes blown away in the wind.
But none of that happened. On Boxing Day (In the 70's I think) you passed away, a heart attack claiming your life. When I was younger I used to say 'grandpa was lucky, he got to open his presents before he died', but now I think of it as 'grandpa was lucky, he got to be with his family on Christmas before he died'.
They miss you. My grandmother passed a few years ago, of lung cancer. I think she missed you until the end, but I don't think she ever would have admitted it. All of your children still miss you. I don't think they'll stop.
On Boxing Day each year we drink to you. To your life, to your death, to your honour, to your memory.
We miss you.
