I try to think what that conversation would be.
Him, me sitting on a beach.
Would we even speak?
Or would I just hold his arm?
Put my head on his shoulder.
I hate to talk about death.
I hate to think about it for purely, purely selfish reasons.
It's not that I'm mad anymore. I'm not.
(Someone did ask me in my early twenties, "Why are you so mad?"
and I had no idea but him leaving did piss me off. Not that it was his fault.
Who was I to blame? Yep. Everyone.
The kicker though was that I couldn't watch as he left. Turned my back and lived with complete shame that I couldn't help him or face him as a result. Powerless to even pray good enough for that.)
I know things are to be expected and me being mad or sad would never help anyone so there's this and a phone call from my niece and if he ever taught me anything he taught me to be kind and good to children.
(because he was one of the best Papaws any kid could have.)
Seriously. My Papaw is better than your Papaw.
He'd chuckle if he could read that.
Maybe that's what we'd do.
We would just laugh with each other after I got finished introducing him to everyone.
Today I am grateful for a car we called the silver streak, a game he invented about a guy named Jack, how he laughed. I am grateful for his kitchen table, for the way he told a story and lived one too.
I am grateful to have met him.