finding Pop everywhere the road takes me

the cloud down the street on his birthday, a day before mine

My grandpa was many things. A hard-worker, a fan of good food and good wine, a morning-walker. He looked at my grandma like she was the most important thing in his life, because she was. He was funny, smart, and always had a fun fact up his sleeve. Whenever I could make him laugh, like truly, belly laugh, I felt on top of the world. He taught me how to make lasagna from scratch, how to ask questions, how to fly a kite. He was so many things, but one of my favorite roles of his was the role of the storyteller. God, he could tell stories. The whole room would quiet until it was just the sound of his voice and the visions that would bring.

One of my favorite stories he’d tell was from one of his bike races. Pop would bike hundreds of miles across America and Europe. That’s another thing about Pop—he was always up to something. Anyway, the story goes like this. He had a long day of biking behind him and could see the finish line. As he neared the end, he began to see elephant-sized grasshoppers hopping towards him. Confused and startled, he collapsed ten feet in front of the finish line and laid on the cool grass for thirty minutes. When he came to, he realized he’d never crossed the line, so he brushed himself off, climbed on the bike, and pedaled ten feet forward. He saw it through to the end. He always did.

I’ve been finding Pop everywhere the road takes me.

I bike through neighborhoods with Hannah and Maeve, crushing leaves into pavement and coasting down hills. I lean into the winding curves the path makes, and when it starts to pour, I keep going. Rain fills my eyes so I can no longer see, but I know that the path is still there. I’ve begun to trust more lately. I believe in the people here in Eugene who hold me in gardens while I cry, who make me soup, who sit on my floor and ask me about him. I believe in the love back home. A whole cluster of people who can sit together in silence, holding hands or offering glasses of water. Memories spilling out of our mouths. With all of these acts, what we’re really trying to say is, “I love you. We have to get through this. I’ll be right here.”

I believe in almond croissants from the French bakery downtown and his guitar I play in the hallway. I believe in the bus and the library and the goodness of the people around me. I trust that the wheels will keep spinning, that they will continue to propel me forward, always. I believe he’ll stay with me to the end of every finish line and so far beyond that.

So Pop, if you’re listening, this is what I want to tell you. Leaves still hold onto trees. We’ll be making ten pies this year for Thanksgiving because you loved dessert so much. I got what you wrote in my birthday card tattooed on my wrist so you can stay with me forever. I’d tell you grief is still with me, in cycling class (I’m really leaning into this bike thing) or when the fog rolls over hills in the morning or when I’m filling the kettle for tea. The pain is enormous, but so is my life. I’m clinging to the good parts of everyday, because that’s what you’d want me to do. I’d tell you this is the first time I’ve been able to write more than a few sentences in a long time, and that it’s hard to write about people, especially you, in the past tense. Recently, people have told me I’m loving, and what I really want to say is, “I learned it all from him.”

carrying him with me, wherever I go