Grandfathers Are Special


My grandfather was my everything. My father wasn’t around, so I don’t know anything about that “Daddy’s Girl” life. But I can assure you my grandfather and I were like PB&J. I didn’t cry when he passed away. He was sick and he was in tons of pain. I can’t explain why I didn’t cry. His memorial service wasn’t a sad one, which could be the reason. People loved him. Everyone loved him.  I remember in the summer when we didn’t have a car, we would go “down the hill” to Walbaum’s*. We would set off on foot. I would always ask how we would get there, his reply, “We’ll see someone on the way.” Every time without fail. Georgie Boy, Buddy Boy, Sledge, or one of his other homies would see us and pull over.

I miss him and I cry now. There’s no plot in a cemetery to visit, but I’m okay with that. It’s not my thing anyway. I see grandfathers and they remind me of him. Only certain ones though, because my grandfather was fly. I look at my husband and see so many of my grandfather’s qualities. He would have loved my husband. They would have had cook offs, I’m sure of it. I try to hold onto things that make me think of him. I always smile at Navy men is uniform. I keep his pictures around. I remember what his voice sounded like and how scratchy his beard was. I even remember the smell of his shaving cream.

I have an excellent memory when it comes to events, milestones, movies, places. My brain won’t allow me to remember when my grandfather passed. It used to bother me. It doesn’t anymore. I remember everything else about him. Those are better memories to have.

dionna camille

*If she doesn’t know what Walbaum’s was, she’s too young for you bro (and probably not from the Northeast).

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