I just — literally just — got a call from my mother. “Pop died.” My father’s father, who has been in general ill health for years, more so after his wife died two years ago, passed away. We don’t have details yet, not eve if it was just now, early this morning, last night, etc.
Wow.
I don’t know how I feel. My mother’s father died before my parents met. My father’s mother died when he was a boy. My mother’s mother is alive and funny, though in bad shape currently. So I’ve never really had a grandparent die before. Plus, if you remember when J died in January 2006, you know the situation is…complicated.
We expect some family battles. Likely a legal battle or two.
Anyway, Pop was, mentally, pretty sharp when I saw him last. We always talked about food a lot and traveling, since we both liked to eat, to cook, to go places. I realized, one of the times I saw him a few weeks ago in the hospital, that the way I move my hands is similar to his motions. We both grasp things like we are afraid to squeeze or crush them. Aside from being warm, the family trait among him, my father and I is that we have very strong hands for not being particularly muscular men. And, until I cut mine last week, occasionally long fingernails.
If you don’t hear from me much this week, you know why.
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