Decompression.

Spontaneous night drive, long hours in the dark talking deep and winding through San Francisco and up and east to party in a vineyard barn, full of mannequins and lights, mirrors and beautiful strangers in fur and feathers, spilled wine and cupcakes, dogs wandering through and picking at scraps, music and fire, paint and cold air, and then Santa Rosa at 5am, bleary eyed father and Karen with blankets, waking up late and lazy and walking through the brick buildings in Railroad Square with iced chai, tree-dappled sunlight and a screw lodged solidly in my tire, goop and gunk and air, father fixes and we’re off headed down through yellow hills that look soft to touch and into that panicky San Fran traffic, back into boots and fur, and expensive IPA and big search lights, snakes and dogs and babies with head phones, and a trio of dancing men in velvet and knickers and leggings, strutting and painting and dancing in bright lights, laughing at the silent disco, headphones on green or blue, and everyone convulsing, so silly in the silence but so earnest when you’re tuning in, lifting up, and then winding home down the 17, all darkness and empty belly and thinking about what it means to be home and what it means to have a suitcase in the back of your car.

For Grandpa.

Grandpa, I don’t know how to say goodbye.

It’s been nearly a year since we rolled you out of that hospital, into the dusty Mexican heat and soared back home, sweaty and uncertain. I remember the big black transparency the doctor showed us; we knew so little.

We’re all trying to look at this time as a blessing – these are the goodbyes you wish you’d said when someone is gone, but they don’t tell you how to go about interacting with someone so differently after a lifetime of habit.

You are the steady heartbeat in the center of this family – something so much a part of us that often you don’t realize how much work is being done to keep us all afloat. What do you say to your heart when it begins to falter? How can you tell it all that it has done, all that is has made possible?

I wish I were more like you, Grandpa. You always seem so certain, so strong, so true to exactly who you are. When I see old photos of you, it’s hard to imagine the other chapters of your life. To me it seems you have always been a big bearded man with wild hair and a mischievous grin, a laugh carried through cigar-scented smoke. No matter how big we’ve all grown, you have never grown any smaller by comparison.

I remember when we were driving back from the airport after we retuned from Mexico – everyone was so anxious to hear from you, and someone handed you the phone to say hi to Candace, I think. You spoke briefly and then said, “I love you,” handed the phone back, and asked, “Who was that?” And we laughed but you just shrugged and said, “I knew it was family, I love all of my family.” That’s exactly who you are to me.

It’s so hard to say goodbye, to find all the important things to say before our time is up, but I know you know the most important thing; that I love you. I think our relationship has always been largely non-verbal, it’s never been a complicated thing. It’s just as simple as love.

My first memories of you don’t even fit into a story, I just remember being in the old house on Brockhurst, and a feeling like a bubbling over of laughter, the kind that comes out of a child in a gleeful scream when they’re about to be tickled.

I don’t really know what you believe, or even what I believe, but I feel certain that you will be okay. I hope you are filled with that feeling of overflowing laughter; that you dissolve into it. I hope you get to see us, and that the next chapter is as adventure filled as this one. I hope you get to bring all this love with you.

Tressa