I have had the theme song to Cheers! running through my head, off and on, for the summer. It’s timely, and fitting: I used to watch that show sprawled in front of the tv at my grandparents’ house. (When we weren’t watching Dr. Who reruns. I wonder how they’d like the newer Who) My grandfather and I would belt the theme song out, now and again. Silly, small thing.
It’s a year, finally. Finally. Already. A full year that my grandfather left his flesh to be buried and grieved for and grieved over. Longer than a year since I saw him last, but that anniversary came and went and was fine. A year, maybe a bit more, since my grandmother decided she was tired of being alive and began the process of shedding her body, too.
I don’t know what happened, exactly, this past June. I know my Gods and my grandparents did something that has eased the devastation that plagued my days. They did something that allowed me the ability to breath and feel something other than crushing sadness. I don’t know what. I may never know what. But I am still bereaved. The world is stiff bereft, without these wonderful people in it. It can only be darker, without them here.
Today I will not warm a hot dog up over a light bulb, because I’m refraining from all meat, though I’m tempted. We may have to save that for Clifford N. Rivet Day, later on in December. Today, however, I give my grandfather a beer that he would enjoy, some candy that he liked, and I will wrap myself in both the memories that warm — and break — my heart, and the knowledge that he is not far from any of us, ever, we who loved him, we who are made better for having been loved by him.
Hail, Gippy. Your constant laughter, impish grin, and unfailing grace (we’ll ignore those naughty jokes, maybe, just for the moment) is missed. We love you.