(a year ago)

The last few days I’ve been thinking of dad. Subconsciously, I think I remembered that it was right about now last year that he died (or consciously—it was just after finals, but before I left for Germany. It was tumultuous time). I didn’t have a great relationship with my dad. We had few things in common: German, Bavaria, and beer. And now that I’ve developed a taste for it, whiskey. But he was still my dad.

When my grandfather died, fifteen years (minus 4 days) ago, I woke up in the middle of the night, a continent away, and knew he was gone. I was filled with rage and desire for revenge. It’s only in the last few years that I’ve gotten to the point where, if I met the man who killed him, I’d be able to act civilized. I talked to him and, yes, prayed to him for a long time after he died…and still do on occasion today. I rarely felt him respond (though I did, at times), but I often felt him “with” me. I thought for a while that I might have kids, if only to name a son after him (a sister beat me to it, although it might have been named after dad instead—they had the same name).

When my father died, I knew it was coming but still didn’t know. My mother had to call me to tell me. If he stopped by anyone on his way out (up? away?), it was with a different daughter. I used to be jealous of her relationship with him, but now I just hope that he did stop by, to give her comfort and let her know.

I talk to him sometimes—mostly to say things like, “I know you wouldn’t like this, but hopefully now you know why I do it.” Wherever he is, if he’s watching over me and knows my thoughts, he can only be more disappointed in me. But I hope that he’s in a place where he can see more than just what I’m doing and can see—and understand—why I do it. And maybe, he can forgive me, like I forgave him.

I haven’t had a lot of people close to me die. My grandfather was emotionally close to me; my father was biologically close; my grandmother was neither (though closer biologically than emotionally), but when I hear stories about her, I wish I knew her better. I think I would have liked her; and she me. I think of her rarely, but in situations that I think would have made her smile.

I don’t know where I stand on the issue of ancestor worship (certainly, I don’t think they can do much more than give me emotional support) but since I do think of them and talk to them, perhaps I’m closer to it than I might otherwise think.

Tonight, I’ll set up an altar of candle(s) and offerings (whiskey, of course) since their graves are far away. I’ll invite dad into my home—an invitation he likely never would have accepted in life—and drink with him. Hopefully, his parents will be there, too. It would be nice to see them again. I’ll talk to them aloud, instead of in my head, and be called crazy if I must. I might read poetry (or at least a dirty limerick) and listen to music they’ve liked (gods, but I hate Wagner). I might even leave the altar to be a fixture in my home. A blasphemous hybrid of Irish and Buddhist ancestor veneration. I might even greet my niece and my sister’s children-who-never-were. I’m not sure any of them ever even existed except in my sisters’ minds, but grandparents, parents, siblings, and siblings’ children seem like a fitting acknowledgement of death—and of life. It’ll be a regular ol’ party with only me in attendance.