Nana, you died, but it wasn’t how I thought it should be. I haven’t seen you in what seems like, and may be, years. I remember spending every Friday at your house when we were young, but as we grew you sort of just faded out of our lives. Is it because my father spends as much time being distant from his family as possible? That seems likely enough. I noticed something about you, Nana. You hurt the people around you in various ways, and they distanced themselves from you. When my father was just a boy you ruined his credit before he had even his first job. I don’t feel like your family was very supportive growing up. I can see that in Dad. He doesn’t express his feelings beyond skepticism too often. He cried, they say, when Papa died. I wonder if he will do the same on your funeral tomorrow.
I wish I had been old enough to really know Papa. The stroke that took his voice and ability to walk took that from me. What would I have seen in him? Dad never spoke ill of Papa, and rarely of you for that matter. I still think he loved you even though you hurt him. He always bought you fuel to keep you warm in the winter. He let you borrow money knowing it wouldn’t come back to him. I remember the time you chased me and my brother around the house with a hickory switch for throwing eggs at Papa’s house, and I remember you taking me inside and putting me in the tub after I fell running from you. Even though I was in trouble I felt you cared then. I never then questioned why you lived next door to one another. Not until much later. I remember setting that paper on fire in the living room and brother running through the house with flaming newspaper. I also remember that even though you said you would that you didn’t tell Mom and Dad. Maybe we all missed out on something that could have been. Rest In Peace, Nana.