A little after midnight last Thursday my mom called to tell me my grandpa had died. And over the past week, I've found it hard to know how to grieve for my grandpa, who we called Pater.
When I remember him, I remember the summer I turned 13, the first time he couldn't remember who I was. In a way, that feels selfish, to try to mourn him by fixating on all the ways I never knew him and never will.
Still, if I think back on those last conversations between us, I can read between the lines. I remember how for a while he'd think I was my brother Gabe, a UCLA student. Every time we talked he'd say, "You know, UCLA was my alma mater!" He had gone back to UCLA to study philosophy after retiring, and looking at it now I realize how much I admire him for that decision -- to work more when he had already accomplished so much. But at the time, all I could see was his illness. It was funny and it was frustrating and it was heartbreaking.
But not all of my memories are tainted by Pater's dementia. I remember he had a great sense of humor and a big laugh - the kind that originates from the belly and shakes a person's whole body. And I remember how I used to love going up to the attic where he had his dark room set up, and when I think about it I can still smell the chemicals. I remember a giant dictionary in the living room, stacks of New Yorkers, multiple chessboards throughout the house and golf balls tucked in random drawers.
In the end, it is not the big things I remember. Instead, it's the tiniest of details, the memories on the margins that I'm left with.
