And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn’t crying for him at all, but for the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again, he would never carve another piece of wood or help us raise doves and pigeons in the backyard or play the violin the way he did, or tell us jokes the way he did. He was part of us and when he died, all the actions stopped dead and there was no one to do them the way he did. He was individual. He was an important man. I’ve never gotten over his death. Often I think what wonderful carvings never came to birth because he died. How many jokes are missing from the world, and how many homing pigeons untouched by his hands? He shaped the world. He did things to the world. The world was bankrupted of ten million fine actions the night he passed on.
Ray Bradbury
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Thinking of you, Grandpa.
I read somewhere that people should never be best friends with their spouse. If you dare choose such an arrangement, you’ll be sorely lacking a mate to discuss your spouse is the logic. Rule breaker that I am, I find this foolish, for neither I nor Greg has any problem with airing our grievances with one another. I firmly believe this is why our relationship works. We talk. We complain. We call each other out on our bullshit. We also pass the best small moments together: walking, talking, driving, sitting, listening, laughing, and dining. We have no secrets, tell no lies. I cannot imagine a better or more fulfilling way for us to live.
