Bob

On Tuesday, the Dear Husband's granddad passed on. I have not written on it because I have not been sure what to say. I'm still not sure. I have been ruminating on it. I chase three kids all day and in the quiet moments I am not slapping together peanut butter sandwiches (or perhaps more accurately when I am) the mind leaps to Bob, then leaps away and then is inexorably drawn back. I am glad he is no longer suffering. I ache for the sadness of my loved ones.

I've never really known my own granddads. One died in the 80's, the other I have hardly seen, due to the vicissitudes of divorce, ill health and a move to the other side of the nation. One of the wonderful (and at times, aggravating) things about the DH are his close family ties. It was through these bonds that I appropriated his grandfolks. I have reveled in their warmth and endlessly amused myself by tracing their peculiarities through my in-laws, my husband, and through my own children.

There will be no funeral, per his request, only a quiet cremation. We will however gather with the rest of the family to celebrate his life with memories, a wake without the body. I look forward to hearing the stories of his life, he was always a surprise. One of my favorite memories of him, as well as one of the last, is of him sitting in a chair in my in-law's living room. He has a cane to one side, a glass of wine at his elbow, and his face is composed in a look of earnest gravity. Off to his right is the Verbalist, unfolding the details of his latest imaginative landscape, into a willing ear. I catch Grandpa Bob's eye and he smiles and points at my son as if to say, "Boy, can this kid talk or what?" He never stopped the Verbalist though or brushed him off, he sat there listening, asking, exploring the breadth of the world laid out before him and enjoyed his wine with a smile.