day 11, to the one that died

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Day 11. A Deceased person you wish you could talk to

Great-grandpa,

I was in fifth grade when you died. It was my first experience with death, and I felt like it wasn't mine–like I didn't have the right to be upset about it, like you didn't belong to me. Instead of talking about my feelings, on the bus with my friends, when they saw I was upset, I talked about the pants I would wear to your funeral. They were covered in flowers, very flowy, and I thought that you would really like that. The air cut through them, and you felt free–like you weren't even wearing pants.

I am glad that you were a part of my life; I am especially glad that I met you before I started having a really horrible fear of old people, which I'm happy to say is dying away. I'm sorry that I was too young to really think about your life–a man that had seen so many changes, a man that had seen our country go through the largest fluctuations in its short history. 


My favorite word in French is histoire, the noun for both "history" and "story." I think the idea that history and the story of us are inseparable–so connected as to share a word, to be one in the same–is powerful. We each become a living histoire. Sometimes, I think of the questions I would have asked you, the stories I could have heard.


I dated a boy in high school, and he had moved into your old house. The swinging doors to the kitchen were gone, but the sun room was the same–still full of minty greens, cobwebs in corners and a scent that we knew was older than us, older than our parents. It was a smell that surrounded us, held onto us, and it frustrated me that they had pushed this from the rest of the house. They had systematically removed the house's history in exchange for neutral warm tones and a leather couch. 

I told the boy what I remembered of you–the M&Ms; the night I sat at your kitchen table with my grandma, waiting for my sister to be born; the organ in the far room that I knew I shouldn't touch; the radio playing police reports.


I wish that I had been smart enough to know you better, and I imagine the stories that could be told. I'm glad that I had you, even if it was only for a little bit, even if I didn't really feel like you were mine.


Love,
Megan

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