There Is No Title.

Sundays used to be spent eating a concoction made by grandma, family around, laughing and eating. Then Sundays were spent at the retirement home, and now on the occasional Sunday, we are spending it at the cementary.
Holidays are often the worst for memories. They hurt because those are the good memories, and the good memories often feel like they are painful to think about. The memories of my grandfather, the ones that make me smile, or laugh are sometimes to painful to think about.
A stone now represents the memory. A black stone, shiny and gray, saying his name, dates, father, husband and grandfather. In a way, it seemed like it didn't represent him. But mostly, at least I knew what it was, another reminder that he is no longer with me. He may there somewhere in spirit, but when I go to prom, he won't be there to take the pictures, nor see me walk to Pomp and Circumstance. He will not be able to attend my graduation party, teach me how to drive Rosie, the honda. When I get my license, I plan to go over to see him, but somehow, I realize that it will never be the same.
I remember the day I went to take my permit test, and failed. I remember going to the reitirement home to see him, and I don't remember what exactly he said, but somehow I felt better. I think it was one of those rare days that he was up, and able to remember who I was. I wish that he was still here, because he always made everything better.
I often wonder about where my grandfather is. I often think about the last time I saw him, in a coffin. Eyes will never open again, in his favorite suit, tie, a cap, and a bunch of other things. I wish that I can see him just one more time, healthy. I want to know if he's proud of me, if he's happy, and what he thinks about the decesions that I have made. I often wonder what he would do if he met a few close friends of mine. I often wonder why it hurts too much for me to think about him, I don't know why I write so many blog entries about this subject, nor why do I talk about it as much or little as I do, but in the strangest way, sometimes expressing my emotions through word is the either the easiest thing for me to do, and at the same time, it's the hardest. Sometimes, I ask my friends for a hug, sometimes, it makes it a tad bit easier for me to bear. I wish that at the end of the day, there was a black or white answer on how to deal with grief, but there isn't. No one is the same, and no one deals with the same things equally.
I love you grandpa.
I miss you Grandpa.
Do you know that?