Anyone who has gotten to know me over the years will tell you many things about me. One such thing is that I am a fierce protector of the underdog. I don't tolerate any form of abuse put upon anyone. I am always eager to share resources with people who feel they have been abused and need a way out. I've seen the painful results of abuse in my own home and in the world, and when emotions are involved even when you make an effort to try and not let that happen, it's so hard to separate. Yet, as the sun rose on this wonderful Mother's Day, these thoughts are all I could focus on when I received the news.
My parents had four of us, myself, a sister and two brothers. During our early years, Dad was still struggling with the things he witnessed as a Marine, the early childhood abuse by his own father and mother who wouldn't protect him from it, and the everyday stress of raising a family with his addiction to Speed. When we needed a respite from our painful homelife, Mom suggested we should go visit our grandpa. Just to be clear, this is Grandpa from my mom's side. My father's parents weren't close to us in life due to them living in Ohio while we grew up in California, but they also had their own drama and were prejudice against my mother for being of Mexican descent, so I guess children are going to get drama wherever they go because the adults who tell us to get along can't concentrate on that very idea themselves. Anyway, our grandparents' house had been a sanctuary for us. Grandpa and Grandma were always eager to take care of us, cook us whatever we wanted and buy us candy and ice cream galore. They were the typical grandparents who spoiled us until our parents reluctantly took us back. 😊
Yet, as my parents were trying to transition into a possible divorce that thankfully didn't turn out that way, we had to live with our grandparents as a consequence. Too young to understand the significance of long carried and buried family secrets, we began to notice tiny fragments that suggested something wasn't right. For instance, I began to notice how my grandpa treated women. If he gave my grandma an order, she followed it almost right away. In fact, I remember one night when he was being particularly rough, she told me, "Mija, when your grandfather says jump, I say how high."
Yeah, not particularly stellar examples of strong and independent women and mothers, but it almost explained why some of my aunts were very weak and had violent or alcoholic husbands and boyfriends. I knew that the lives of some of my cousins were also painful even though the grownups tried to shield us from the truth. Despite all this, no one would ever entertain an accusation anyone made towards Grandpa. He was a sick, but very good man as we were told. He tried so hard to emphasize the importance of having us grandchildren near him as much as possible, but if he only knew how much we have come to understand, he would probably regret it. If he meant to keep this dark side hidden from us, he didn't do a very good job.
My grandfather was born in Mexico, but raised in El Paso, Texas. There's not much revealed to me about his childhood life, but I know times were tough and he worked very hard. There was a story frequently told to us as children that he once had an opportunity to serve Shirley Temple a glass of water when the original bus boy she requested the glass from was too starstruck to act. I also don't know much about his experience in the military, but I do know he was in the Korean war. During this time, he had a traumatic experience when supposedly someone threatened to kill him. This event changed his life forever.
He married two women before marrying my grandma. In total, he had 13 children, 6 of them from my grandma alone. Grandma was always so loving to his kids from previous wives, treating them just as if she was their mom. That's why for years, all of our aunts and uncles were considered just that, aunts and uncles, regardless of who their mother was. Everyone always gathered at our grandparents' house for happy holiday gatherings and their birthdays. The house was always packed, and always chaotic. With a large family like that, it was also difficult for someone like me who struggled to find autonomy and privacy amongst people who were still so ignorant about my blindness. This was also the time when I was a very verbally expressive child, and I began to pick up on things and ask so many questions. One question that always stuck in my mind was, "Why do we always have to go to Grandpa's house? Grandma comes to visit us sometimes, but why does Grandpa never come out to see us?"
Little shreds of truth began to fall upon our ears. I learned from my parents that because of my grandpa's early life experience and someone threatening to kill him, he became extremely paranoid. If my grandma was on the phone, she was not allowed to say where she was going, what she was doing, or when she'd be back. She couldn't share very personal details about their life, because my grandpa insisted that the phone was tapped. He left all the errands to my grandma. This means, while he stayed in the house and worked on his building projects out back, my grandma went to work, drove to the utility companies to pay the bills, did all the grocery shopping, and oh yeah, she still had to come home and cook and clean for him. His paranoia got to the point where any man in our home was automatically accused of having sex with my grandma, no matter what. One night, he accused my father of doing this and completely banished my father from his home. My father had no such interest in doing anything with Grandma, but it didn't matter. My grandpa never, ever forgave him for such a terrible sin in his eyes. He carried a life-long grudge against my father, and I think a part of him always disapproved of my mother because she chose to remain with him.
Yes, Grandpa may have come to our rescue many times. He gave us money for food, clothes, candy, school supplies and much more, but my father is the man I respect now. Sure, my father had his own demons and did things to me that still hurt to this day, but he knew he had to repent and see the error of his ways. When my parents were heading for a divorce, my father entered a Christian-based treatment program and was doing so well that the judge actually agreed not to go forward with the divorce after all. My father became a different man. The change was like night and day. Unlike my grandfather, who never got help for his many problems, my father at least recognized his wrongs and made an effort to make things right.
One such sacrifice my father made came around the time of important holidays. Since he was never invited to any of the celebrations, he stayed home alone because he knew that it was healthy for us to see the rest of the family, and he knew we'd have fun visiting our grandpa. For this one moment, Grandpa had us to himself, and he could pretend men like my father didn't exist. Rumor has it he accused other men of the same thing, but apparently there was something about my father my grandpa just hated. Even when my dad got us all going to church and he took us to a non-denomination church instead of a Catholic church as my mother's family had always been, he even found fault in that. Everything my father did was wrong in Grandpa's eyes, but despite that, my father never had a mean word to say about him. He learned to forgive Grandpa and recognized us kids still wanted to spend time there. We got ice cream and candy. We got to swing on the swing set he'd built in the front yard. There was a biking trail near by that Grandma could take the kids to. We were in walking distance of a convenience store and a few restaurants. When we were there, Grandpa was always very, very happy to see us. I distinctly remember my grandma telling me that he's always very happy when we come over to see him. Little did I know what implications those words would have for me when I got older. Nevertheless, we always had a small separate celebration at home with Dad so we could do something as a family. My dad never got mad when we wanted to see our grandparents for our birthdays or for Christmas. I think about my stupid selfish kid brain and wonder how I could have been so dumb. Yes, Grandpa and Grandma loved me and spoiled me, but I should have recognized just what was going on and given my father more of the respect he deserved.
One such visit to my grandparents changed my life forever when I was about ten years old. Still, I tried to compare the grandpa I knew to the grandpa that was starting to emerge, and I kept my thoughts to myself and acted like nothing happened. I carry the guilt of this experience with me even to this day. This was just a typical visit that didn't surround any holiday. My sister and I had become friends with these two girls in our neighborhood who were also sisters. Their mom did some catering work, and through her, my mom was also able to get a job doing catering at some fancy college parties. These girls became super close to my sister and I. I'm not sharing their names for obvious reasons, but they accompanied us on this outing. Most of us were playing outside when the younger sister came to us from inside the house with some horrible news.
"Your grandpa touched me," her words went. For a minute, I struggled to process what I'd just heard. Through tears, she then recounted how my grandpa was holding her, and how he lifted up her shirt and touched her breasts. She was only a nine-year-old girl!
My sister and I were silent. Our grandpa did this? It couldn't be! Is she making up a joke about our grandpa? All these thoughts went through our heads. Keep in mind, my sister was nearly 4 years younger than me. I can only imagine how hard this would have been for her. In any event, we were both in the middle of a conflict. Do we trust the grandpa who always kept us safe and well-fed? Do we trust these girls who are supposed to be two of our best friends right now, and who were rightfully upset that our little brains just couldn't comprehend that this was a real thing that happened? There was too much of the story we didn't know, but we'd find out soon enough.
I will say that I'm glad my grandfather admitted the truth to Grandma later that day. Eventually, word spread to our parents about what had happened, but the subject was never talked about again. Our two best friends weren't allowed to come with us to see our grandparents anymore. They slowly began drifting out of our lives after that, and I have to wonder if us not believing this could happen, or their mother's anger at nothing being done, was the catalyst that sent our friendship into a downward spiral. They also moved to another location, which made communication a bit more difficult.
Later that evening at home, we had a final meeting with our parents. We were told exactly what happened, that Grandpa admitted to it, and that our friends couldn't go with us to his house anymore. We were also reminded that if any adult does something to us, we'd need to find an adult and tell them as soon as possible. We were not to talk about this anymore, and we need to realize that Grandpa is a sick man who needs help, and just did something bad he shouldn't have done. I don't know what became of the situation after that because it was swept under the rug. Grandpa never faced any real consequences that we know of, probably because my family sweet-talked our friends' mother to not say anything and that he'd get some help. Whatever the case, the family tried to move on from this experience, still going over to Grandpa's house like it was no big deal.
You may be thinking that as you read the proceeding background information, I'm simply sharing my experiences I went through to give people a better understanding about why processing my grandfather's death was difficult for me. This information is also therapeutic, as I have recently been plagued by traumatic flashbacks of my own abuse, and this memory was among the many that surfaced. I never forgot about entirely. I've always thought that was the wrong thing for someone to do, but I kept my opinions to myself because I just thought that was a dark time in grandpa's life that I didn't want to delve deeper into. I was triggered and started experiencing these flashbacks while I was working on my master's degree. As anyone knows, if you work in any profession that involves working with children, you are obligated to undergo training about reporting child abuse and recognizing the signs. Growing up, I never thought I was in an abusive family, but the grownups tried very hard to distinguish us as a good family that lasts long despite several challenges. We were constantly exposed to people having very violent things happening to them in movies and TV, and there would be comments from the grownups that made you feel as though you should be grateful to have such a blessed and privileged life.
One of the modules I completed for my degree was a core Special Education course. One such segment involved being able to recognize the signs of abuse, and it was very important because disabled students sometimes can't even talk about their experiences even if they wanted to. One such article I read was about a nonverbal student who was being abused, with the title, "She Can't Tell Me What's Wrong." As someone who has always felt confident in verbally expressing myself, those words hit me like a ton of bricks. All of a sudden, the flashbacks came like a tidal wave. I heard the sounds of me and my siblings crying and the shrill sound of leather smacking violently against bare skin. I heard the sound of my brother screaming and crying so hard that when he was backhanded and pushed to the couch, his scream actually bounced in the air as his body bounced against the couch. I heard the glee in my father's voice as I was walking up to the house one day, because he was about to spank me for something I did at school. "Here she comes. I get to spank her! Alright!" The words came, the memories of pain came, the memories of crying so hard I could barely get a breath, memories of my mother and all us kids huddled in the closet as she cried, Dad yelling and throwing things around the house. I remembered the fights. I remembered that depending on what mood Dad was in, we'd have to be extra careful because even doing a little something wrong could set him off. Among all of these memories was the painful realization that my grandfather actually touched a little girl inappropriately. Yes, he admitted it, and he promised he wouldn't do that again. So far as I know, he was true to his word, but that still didn't make it okay.
I became intensely focused on making this right in any way possible, although there was no way this could be fixed. I carried the guilt of 10-year-old me, too young to understand, to unwilling to believe that someone I loved could do this to someone else that I loved. I began to reflect on those supposedly special childhood memories at Grandpa's house, and this sent me even further into a tailspin. It was then that I started reflecting on the little things, the things I didn't understand back then, but could see clearly through an unfiltered lens now. This didn't help my current situation at all. I was already experiencing suicidal ideation due to severe stress. I was working part-time, trying to finish my degree, and care for my husband of nearly 20 years. The combined responsibilities of wife, caregiver, household manager, breadwinner, student, and finally, volunteer, crushed me into a pea-sized nothing who would never experience the happiness I thought each living being deserved. I realize now that I should have been given trauma therapy instead of talk therapy. I was forced into a therapy program that hasn't been going well for me, but I had to get therapy or the school wouldn't let me attend and I'd lose my degree. They didn't want a special education teacher graduating from their school with thoughts of suicide, so despite however much pain I carry, my mental health care has been dictated by educational officials out of state who knew nothing about my current state of being and wouldn't ever try to understand.
With that said, despite the immense sadness that prevented me from doing the most simple things for the past 4 years, there arose a new feeling of anger within me, a new obsession for the truth. Whenever I had time to chat with Mom or a close family member, I began asking intense questions. I wanted to know what actually became of that incident, and in my pursuit of the truth, I began to understand just how much my family wanted to forget about it. I never got a straight answer from my mom about what happened to my grandpa, although she said she always believed what he did was wrong, and that she wouldn’t stand up for him if anything happened to him as a result. One thing she said though made me cringe more than anything. She then said, “Grandpa always had a rule. He would never do this to anyone in the family.”
Excuse me… what? How is this supposed to satisfy my more than adult, more than reasonable request for the truth? Just because it wasn’t a family member, was this supposed to make me feel good that none of this stuff could happen to me? I became so enraged, and that rage turned into paranoia. Why was my family downplaying this incident? We’re far removed from that time, and even as much as I loved my grandpa, I knew and still believe that his actions were not okay. Why couldn’t the rest of the family admit this with confidence? That’s when the paranoia really set in. Slowly, through the past three years, my family became unsafe to me. I’ve been acting like everything is fine when I talk to them, but I became so obsessed in the idea that my family was keeping more secrets from me. At first, I tried convincing myself that this was all a result of how I was feeling about the situation, but then I discovered that there were actual secrets being kept from me. I never wanted this basket of fears that are real to me. I never wanted this paranoia, nor did I hope that the paranoia would turn out to be for true reasons, but that indeed is the case now. I discovered more secrets, some about my mom’s husband that I’m still struggling to deal with. I let that man walk me down the isle as a way to extend the olive branch. I wasn’t going to let Grandpa walk me down the isle, despite people in my family suggesting that I do so. I could never give Grandpa that honor because he chose not to include my father. Still, all of this was okay for the rest of the family. They showed up for every celebration with their husband or boyfriends and kids, making more happy memories while our father didn’t get to be there with us. Still, that was okay. Not even my mother’s husband actually choking her in front of my brother and sister could be shared with me, because his image of himself to me always had to be polished and clean. These men were causing so much damage to our lives, and yet, no one in the family was learning from the lessons and leaving us as kids, now adults, to reflect on and deal with the messes that were beyond our control to witness. No one was standing up and saying that this wasn’t right. No one was learning from history and trying to break the cycle, despite having opinions on other rapists, pedophiles, and trusted individuals who molested children in the news. It’s not okay unless it’s in the family, I guess. With my own mental health already on a knife’s edge, and me going through my own life crisis with a divorce looming and so many uncertainties, this is the hour that I need my family the most, but I also realize that I cannot trust them. This is the pain that courses through my veins at this moment as I write and try to process my grandfather’s death.
The news of Grandpa's death wasn't a complete surprise. We knew it would happen in a matter of time. He reached the ripe old age of 100, and his health was declining rapidly. Both he and my grandma required around-the-clock care, care that only three of my aunts and a cousin were actually providing. Despite the massive number of kids and grandkids my grandparents had, only very few people were actually stepping up to the plate, everyone else so wrapped up in their own lives that they couldn't step in and offer some help, even if it was a bit from time to time. This small group of dedicated individuals began to fight under the stress of caring for two elderly people, one having severe dementia. I began hearing about these petty arguments from a close family member, fights over even the simplest of things like food. This didn't help my image of a chaotic family, and I knew that even as I start to go through this divorce process, that my family was too focused on their pain to offer even a modicum of support. Yes, real pain was surfacing from their ridiculous fights. Whatever my grandfather did to some of those women suddenly surfaced within them, turning some of my long cherished and respected family members into bitter, angry, uncaring souls. Maybe it's just me, but I've never seen the benefits of grudges. I can understand anger and will remove myself from the individual who made me mad for a time, but I always come back and forgive them. Depending on the severity of their actions, I may not trust them as I once did, but I always try to forgive. In this moment of looming death, the examples I was supposed to learn from as a child were turning into people you'd see on the Jerry Springer show. As angry as this makes me however, we can't deny that these fights represent something way deeper underneath. Someone's pain is denied by other family members which makes the trauma even worse. Maybe everyone didn't see it this way, but the more prolonged the fights, the worse off we will all be for not doing what should be done in times of grief. Death is supposed to bring people closer, but I shouldn't be surprised because some of my family members acted less than admirably after my own father's death, so it's definitely an unnecessary pattern that no one wants to brake.
A couple of years ago, I also came out to some of my family members and admitted I am bisexual. That's when I also found out that I had an uncle who was gay. I never knew that at all. I also found out that while my grandfather accepted that he was gay, he refused to let my uncle show any affection to his partner whenever he was around the family, because my grandpa didn't want the rest of us kids seeing that. Yet again, my grandfather's influence on the family prevailed. I tried processing more anger as I was learning this. Here was this man, always wanting to spoil the hell out of his grandkids, making the wife do all the work, hardly leaving the house until he got much older and started getting back into driving until his health took a turn for the worse, always paranoid but never getting help to address his trauma for his own family's sake. Now, this man was catered on hand and foot for the last few years of his life by the women he didn't treat very well. They have to try to keep their anger in check around him, and instead let it explode on each other when they were supposedly such close sisters through the years. Here's this man, dictating his way of life in a house that for years he was too afraid to leave. Now, his death on Mother's Day, of all days, prevented me from even talking to my own mother. Her husband had to give me the news because she was too distraught over her father's death to come to the phone and talk to her own daughter. Here's this one man, who for so many years, surrounded himself by the pleasures of grandkids adoring him, that he lost sight of trying to be a real father to these women and men who raised us.
My aunt recently told us that he was realizing the error of his ways. He'd said to her, "I'm sorry I wasn't a good father, but I will always be a good grandfather." I think that's why for so many years, he tried so hard to please us. Maybe he didn't appreciate quality time with his children because he had so many? I'm not sure. Maybe his own sickness prevented him from really learning about his children and cherishing them for the amazing people they are. It's no secret he caused my mother and her siblings a great deal of pain. I've heard arguments between my grandparents once in a while, my aunts stepping in to intervene on my grandma's behalf. For me though, I need to focus on what it was like to have him as a grandfather. I've been reflecting on this very idea. Was he really a good grandfather after all?
My grandpa always gave us food when we needed it, candy and ice cream like it was going out of style, and always bought us special gifts around the time of the holidays. He was particularly interested in helping me expand my music talent, so he has purchased a couple of keyboards for me through my lifetime that were very expensive. He was really good at building things. When I got my braille bible, he knew I'd need a bookcase to store all the volumes, so he built me one from scratch. He even built me a dresser when my husband and I moved into the apartment we've lived in for the past 18 years, and I still use it to this day. He always laughed at my jokes and danced with me in his arms in the living room to some of our favorite songs. I can recall many summer nights that I enjoyed swinging in the front yard, an ice cream cone in one hand, a Walkman in the other. There were many mornings that I spent with him and Grandma at the table. He allowed me to drink coffee at a young age even though my parents probably wouldn't have approved of it. Grandma used to read stories to me and as I got older, watched crime shows with me as she told me what was happening on screen. They always had a home for me that was a shelter from the storm, and I was fed and well-clothed.
There are a few incidents that come to mind, however, murky clouds of memories on a distant shore that have returned and threaten to tarnish this unblemished reflection of a man I thought I knew so well. One such incident took place on a night when my youngest brother was very sick. My mom was doing my hair, and my grandpa had walked into the room. He was apparently unhappy with my brother's condition, because he very loudly told my mother that she doesn't take good care of him. He started yelling, going on and on about how she wasn't doing a good job with my brother. I didn't understand most of the words, but I knew something wasn't right when my mom suddenly yanked on a sleeve of my blouse and dragged me into one of the bedrooms, slamming the door. As she returned to brushing my hair in the silent room, I asked her what happened. In a tearful voice, she replied, "He said I wasn't a good mommy." That didn't make sense to me. I always thought she was a good mom. Why didn't he?
Years later, my cousin had a baby. Everyone knows that when a newborn comes around, so many want to hold and fuss over the baby. I was one of them, but my family had so many restrictions on me when I was holding a baby because of my blindness. I was particularly upset one night that I couldn't hold the baby, and I remembered making a noise of irritation. Every one else was holding the baby and carrying him around the house. One such person who couldn't get enough of carrying the baby was my grandpa. In fact, for as long as I could remember, whenever a baby came to the house, he was holding it most of the time. He did whatever he could to make sure that child was always so intent in his arms. He'd literally walk around the house for long periods, carrying these children even when they'd already fallen asleep. On the night when I made my irritated sound, he turned to me, holding the baby, and very firmly said, "Melissa, the baby likes being with me." That sounded so weird but I didn't know what to make of it at the time. Why was he so obsessed with little children, always wanting to make sure the babies liked *him * in particular? Why did he have to make that known to me like a school bully who brags about how much people like him? Come to think of it, why was he always so happy when the children came over, I mean, so ready to spoil them rotten just to keep them in his life? Yeah… you don't want to go down that rabbit hole with me again. I'll bet you already know where this is going. Yes, Grandpa, yes. The babies always wanted to be with you.
So, was he a good grandfather after all? Well, let's see. Yes, he was always there when we needed him. Yes, he gave us a home and abundant sweets and gifts to make sure we were happy. I think in his heart he tried very hard to be the grandfather, or the person he wanted to be. I'm glad to know he's recognized his mistakes of the past and wanted, in his own way, to try and mend the family. Unfortunately, his own way of doing this was to try and hide behind the pain, and that led to so many consequences that affected more than his own children, perhaps more than his own grandchildren and great grandchildren. He chose not to address his trauma in a healthy way, maintaining a tight authority on the people in his life so that he never lost that sparkling clean image of him being a super caring grandpa. He still treated my grandma like she was his possession, all the while taking in abused daughters and protecting them and their children from nasty court and custody battles. He raised a group of women without backbones, my mother worst of all, who were taught they had to rely on men to make all the big decisions for them. This resulted in them being put in some rather sticky situations that in turn, put the grandchildren at risk. He criticized decisions his daughter made on how she cared for my brother, and instead of offering advice, he put her down in front of her own children, setting an example that the men are the ones who run the show because they know what they're doing. The women need to be told what to do apparently. This unhealthy attitude was so instilled in her to the point that she couldn't handle life without a man, and hooked up with one not even a year after our father's own death. Instead of giving us the time to grieve with our mother, she let someone else into our home that had so much negativity and could be rude to members of my family. This in turn, broke our family even more further apart.
He obsessed over making sure little babies were always happy with him, sleeping and cooing peacefully while he carried them throughout the house. He touched my friend very inappropriately, leaving us to hold the bag and try and reconcile two version of our grandpa at a time when we couldn't even comprehend what was going on. He tried to cover up the fact that we had a gay uncle, not allowing him to express his love to his partner the way everyone else did. Finally, he carried a life-long grudge against a man who meant no threat to him at all. He even started coming around to visit us again after my father died, which was a huge slap in the face. How can I just happily accept him as my grandfather when he never worked on addressing the demons that made him a bad father in the first place? Even in his final days, he witnessed some of his own children arguing over petty things because they also couldn't deal with their pain in a healthy way.
I believe deep down, my grandpa was a loving person, but he was a very sick and damaged man. Even loving people can become sick and damaged, and it's up to the ones who love him to ensure he gets the help he needs. In the end though, no matter who leads him to the water, he is the one who has to make the choice to drink. He chose to carry his own demons for fear that changing his demeanor would make him less than a man. He is also a human after all, with the capacity to make mistakes made by so many others. While I don't particularly think he was a good grandfather, I do believe he tried his best. With all of us grandkids grown up, some of us still go visit him, so he's done something right to keep the people who love him around, even until his final days.
After hearing the news from my mother's husband this morning and not getting to speak to her personally, I called one of my aunts. She is always visiting Grandma, so I thought I'd wish her a happy mother's day and see what more I can find out about the situation. He outlived the woman who was a dedicated wife to him through the years, even though she doesn't even know his name anymore. She couldn't even speak the word "Hi" to me, just barely mouthed it. That alone spoke volumes to me, the physical and emotional strength lacking because her love was now gone.
I know there was some good in the man I know as my grandfather. As I write this, I wish him nothing but an abundance of love and peace in the great beyond. I'm thankful for the blessings he did bring to our lives. I hope he can find the serenity and calm that was missing so much from his life here on earth. More importantly, I'm glad he's free of any pain. As the wheel of life spins him into his next incarnation, I hope he gets the chance to be more than a great grandfather. He needs another chance to be an amazing father, guiding his children to be their best selves. He will carry the torch of what it means to be a good leader, not one of high status, but one of equal humility with his people. I hope he can spend good quality time with his children in the next life, precious moments without fear, but full of discovery and wonder. If there is anything nature teaches me, the cycle of life and death is a necessary, but forgiving cycle. Despite what has been done in the past, in nature, there's always room for love. I truly hope his death can turn things around for those who are left behind to deal with the aftermath of pain that he caused. I hope people can find healing in this time of sorrow, recognizing that he has moved on and now it is their time to do the same with love and acceptance. Let the healing begin, and let love conquer all.
Dear Grandpa,
I thank you for the good times, the loving gifts, the fun summer nights building memories in your front yard. I thank you for the music, the dancing, the stories and songs. I thank you for offering us a home in times of trouble, and never letting us go without. You did your best despite what you had, and for this you can be proud.
As you journey through the great beyond, I hope you have the time to reflect on your life here. While you played happily with your grandchildren, your wife ran a neat, peaceful home mostly without you because of the fear that held you back from living your best life. You wouldn't have all that candy and ice cream in the fridge without the help of others who stepped in and made sure your home was filled with all the comforts. You also had children who still love you, and whether you feel you 've been a good father or not, a father's job never ends. You still had opportunities to impart love and wisdom to your children, even though they were no longer under your control.
You were surrounded by a large family of many generations who love you. Yet, I hope you realize that these are the same people who have experienced some degree of pain by your actions. You tried so hard to be the grandparent that spoiled your grandchildren, but you never shied away from putting their mother down, nor did you realize the pain we would carry for years when you touched one of our friends. You've had plenty of opportunity to give yourself the safety and peace in your life every human deserves, but no one is going to hand it to you on a silver platter. These are things we each must do for ourselves. You could have been an example to your children and future generations to be the one who will brake the cycle. You lived in a particularly significant period of history, the great depression and World War II showing perhaps the best and the worst of humanity at the same time. While I understand that those were difficult times, many people chose that moment to turn their lives around the make the best of it while they are here. This is your moment now, Grandpa. Let this be the moment you decide to give yourself the serenity and the happiness you desperately tried to seek in your self-constructed paradise. Each one of us controls our destiny, whether we are alive on this earth or in the hereafter. Take this moment to reflect on what you've learned, and give yourself the grace and comfort you deserve as you take this next step in your journey. You were human after all, and now, your spirit will move on to greater opportunities.
I will always miss that special part of you that I remembered seeing when I was growing up, that fortress of a grandpa who fed us, spoiled us and did his best to keep us safe. As the layers of deception are pealed away, I am grateful to understand your life through a different lens. I know you suffered a lot, but you tried your best to spread a legacy of kindness. I do hope for your sake that those of us who remain can find their own peace as they mourn the loss of your presence. You are no longer bound by earthly constraints. You are now free to be the good and caring person you wanted to be. Become that, and so much more. The shackles of fear and regret are no longer there. Take your destiny by the hand and guide yourself into a brighter, happier, truer future. I love you, Grandpa. I hope your new home is filled with peace and love, no matter where you are. You will always be missed.
Love,
Mel