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I didn't have a dad growing up- he left when I was 2 and I saw him twice after that. Once at his parents house for Christmas, and once when he being sentenced to prison.
I had my grandfather on my mom's side of the family. And while my sister raged and pleaded and begged our dad to pay attention to us, I don't think I thought about him much.
My grandpa came to every track meet- often the only person who came to see me run at all. He came to every play, every musical. He paid for my singing lessons, he bought me a keyboard and let me come to his house to play his piano.
When they released me from the hospital for anorexia, he was the one who picked me up.
When I got pregnant and my aunt's refused to speak to me, he still did- he came to the hospital with flowers to meet the baby. My middle son is named for him.
It feels weird to live in a world he doesn't exist in anymore. He was such a presence- a force. All the values I have, the things that are important to me came from him. He was around in a way none of the other adults in my life were. When my home was mired in violence, his home was a safe refuge.
Even when we knew he was going to leave, I thought some last minute miracle would spare him. The cancer had been bad before, he always survived. They gave him six months. He took two years. I don't know if I ever told him what he did for me, what it meant. How I never told him because I thought we'd have more time before it all fell apart. Because I didn't believe he was going to actually die.
The last thing he said to me and my cousins echoes loudly, "I hope all of you know that I love you all, individually and collectively. I wish you a lifetime of happiness and peace. Our lives should be guided by love and mercy. Learn to forgive yourself and others." He was apologizing because he wasn't leaving us money and didn't want us to think he loved us less because of it.