My grandpa loved Brach’s red and white peppermint candies. Those little pinwheels remind me of him each time I see them, even on days when he’s the furthest thing from my mind. I appreciate those moments, nods to memories and reminders of people I love, even though I don’t often pause and give them the attention they deserve.
Abbey did a Dia de los Muertos project for Spanish class last weekend. Her drawing included the things that my dad appreciated and loved, and while I suggested a couple of things (airplanes!), she put together the majority of it on her own. Seeing her interpretation of the things he loved made me grateful, because I think she was spot on with her choices.
I wonder sometimes what my kids remember about my dad (and Ryan’s dad). They were young when both men died, so much younger than I was when I lost my grandparents.
Like anyone we lose, I wonder if their memories are their own or ones they’ve crafted from collective stories and family lore, talk of his favorite things and his never-ending care for the people he loved, manifested in doing much more than saying. We talk about him frequently, but I know each of the people who loved him experienced a different version of him, because no two relationships can ever be exactly the same.
I miss him at obvious times – like holidays or when I need help with a project around the house – but the times that hit the hardest are the unexpected twangs of memory. A Jeopardy clue about Cheers produced a lump in my throat the other day, and I could see him in his LaZBoy, eating Taco Bell and relaxing after a long afternoon shift at work.
Sometimes I think those small moments offer clues to my favorite parts of him, the parts I didn’t always think of as cherished until they became part of my past and not my present.
He must be on my mind more lately, because I truly thought I sat down to write about my grandfather’s mints and how certain flavors invoke the people we love. I don’t mind, though, that my words went in a different direction, looping around to my dad and the way we could sit in a comfortable cocoon of silence, watching Seinfeld or Cheers while the rest of the house slept.
I hope the kids continue to remember him, even if our memories help them along. I hope his love offers them some quiet protection against any darkness they may face.
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