some things take time.

This is 2006: The year of death. (or so it seems.)

Shortly after writing a post about the above subject (here), I recieved a phone call from my mother telling me that Grampa was in his final moments; that he had fought the cancer for as long as he could.

I can't remember much of the day past that phone call.

I know there was a five hour drive to my hometown, and I know that I missed saying goodbye to my grandfather by an hour. I know that I stopped at a rest area, and I know that I looked like a zombie as I wandered through the abreviated junk-food aisle.

I know that I held my crying grandmother in my arms, and that Gramps was there holding us both.

In the many sleepless nights since his death, I have thought about all of the times he has helped me. And when I did find sleep, being woken by dreams of my childhood: of riding on the tractor, of stealing his cigarettes (and getting caught because I chose to smoke them in the dark!), and of him yelling at me and D.J. for destroying windshields in his salvage lot.

I chose to document one such dream in this blog because I find that writing is always cathartic, but I was not prepared to come face to face with him each time I came back here to write. This alone has prevented me from writing since his death.

I think it's important for me to get this out - to put a post between there and here.

If there is one thing I'm learning to accept it's that I may never be done crying, but I can't be afraid to be reminded of gramps and all that he means to me.

I miss him more each day.

And I can't wait to be woken me up from a deep sleep by the next memory.