The You to Me

I don’t remember much,
but when you were gone. 
When I attended my first funeral. 
When I would never see you again. 

We sat in the wooden pews, 
my brother and your daughter at my sides. 
The death wasn’t sudden, 
but I would never get to know you. 

I sometimes ask my mom about you. 
She says she sees you sometimes. 
On other peoples’ faces. 
And that you’re the only one that wanted her. 

I have one memory, 
and that is all: 
of me apologizing to you, 
for running around your house.

But even then, 
my memory can only be so accurate. 
And on that particular Wednesday, you were gone. 
But that’s not what hurts the most. 

The thing is, I never really got to know you. 
Not the you put into words. 
Not the you in stories.
But the you that makes you, you. 

I wish I could’ve known you. 
But I was far too young. 
I wish I had memories I could hold close to my heart.
Memories that I could remember and never forget.

I love you, Opa.