I don’t remember my grandfather ever talking to me. Ever.
At 60, he died of a heart attack. He was in the hospital for a while (week?) before he died. I was 13.
I never went to see him. I sort of felt guilty about that.
All these years later, it dawned on me that there’s a chance I didn’t go because I may have thought:
- He’ll be coming home as soon as he’s well enough
- What would we talk about?
Or maybe I just didn’t understand love enough to know how this may have been very important to him.
Or maybe, just maybe, I was following his lead.
