Do You Remember Your Grandpa?

I have your eyes.  I have your nose.  I have your hair.

I write my vowels like you do.  I love all cats unconditionally like you do.

When I was visiting my brother, Ryan, on Christmas Day, he caught me up on the family’s current events.  Since crazy Uncle John had cancelled Christmas at Grandpa’s house, I was making the rounds to drop of presents in the morning- Ryan’s place, Aunt Patty and Uncle Eddie’s house.  I didn’t get you anything because you don’t return my calls and didn’t tell me Christmas was cancelled.  Is that spiteful?

But could you imagine me showing up on Christmas Day to an empty house?

Luckily I had spoken with Ryan a couple days beforehand and he warned me.

Good thing I’m a last-minute shopper.

Uncle John had been throwing away or possibly selling Grandpa’s possessions in preparation of selling the house.  We were standing in Ryan’s bedroom while he rooted around for my clarinet in his closet.  He was able to grab it before Uncle John’s purge.  I had never been to Ryan’s before and I was scanning his room, taking in all the details I could.  I was shocked to see it was clean, the walls had neatly hung posters, and his color scheme was complimentary.  He had a chameleon in a large cage that I couldn’t take my eyes off of.

Uncle John had thrown away all of the momentos you had saved from our childhood-the drawings, finger paintings, books I made out of construction paper and yarn.  That gave my heart a little pang.

Ryan said you found a stash of guns in Grandpa’s attic; he told me they were probably your grandpa’s.

“Hah,” I laughed looking at his chameleon, “he probably shot himself with one of those.”

Ryan finally pulled out my clarinet from the depths of his closet and he said, “Hah, that’s actually what Mom said.”

I smiled.  We had the same thoughts- dark and twisted, but the same.

As I left Ryan’s place, we hugged even though we had never hugged and I told him I’d try to make it out to see him again sometime soon.  I headed out to the driveway and after a few steps towards my car, I began to frown.  I’m used to numbing myself, but the holidays had me vulnerable, weak.

The funny thing is, I think about you every day.  And if we had the same thoughts, I would think you’d think of me- at least enough to make you want to reach out and talk to me.

But you don’t.

 

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