Disappearing Act

I’ve been a bit absent from the blog lately. Partially, it’s been due to the holidays, work and both mine and Chris’ birthdays. But mostly, it’s because right as I was hitting “post” on my last entry, my dad called to tell me that my grandpa was in the hospital and probably wouldn’t make it. He didn’t. He died on Christmas Eve.

Just like when Rachel died, I find I can’t write about it. I have no problem pounding out 500 words about the ridiculousness of umbrellas or shoes seen at Nordstrom. But when it comes to something I actually care about, something that actually means something to me, I’m at a loss for words.

Instead, I keep thinking about how my grandpa told me at my wedding that it was the best wedding he’s been to in a long time. Or how I feel bad for moving away to college and living in Syracuse and missing some of the last seven years of his life. Or feeling guilty that the last time Chris and I went to visit him and my grandma, we prolonged our trip until halftime of the Bears game. I remember how, when we left their condo that day, he insisted on walking us down the hallway to the elevator, and he stood there smiling and waving until the elevator doors closed between us.

And in the words of Forrest Gump, that’s all I have to say about that.