Lolo

He would've been seventy-nine today, but he's not.

Do I, can I stop at that? I'm afraid if I say more, I'll say too much or worse, I'll say much too little. The words to describe him don't exist. He was such an extraordinary person and yet, that's not how I see him.

He was just there, and I hate how I appreciate him more now that's he's gone, but that's life, I guess. I also hate how the same tears that fall for petty things -- when yawning, over cheesy movies, out of self-pity -- are the ones I cry whenever I think of him.

I remember crying and not really knowing why. I remember seeing him, lifeless. I wonder if I was too young to feel then. I wonder if I'm old enough to understand now.

At times, it all seems to make sense. But mostly, it hurts. It makes me sad. I can't grasp happiness or that sense of closure that everyone around me seems to have captured. Why does it seem like I hurt more? Why can't I let go when everyone else has?

Maybe I'm approaching it all wrong. I know they haven't forgotten. I act as if I'm the only one who remembers him! Everyone misses him, his 711 cab, his jean jacket, his Burger King deliveries, his dollar bills, his hamburger and steak. I'm not alone. Right?

I was thinking about all of this about a half hour ago in the car on the way to the Killers concert to pick up Lola. Yes, my grandmother frequents music concerts of that sort. But it's not what you think, unless you're Stephie, my only reader, who knows Lola as well as I. Okay, I'll come to my senses. You are Stephie.

She, Lola, is so strong. Such a strong woman for all she's been through. I don't even know what that all is. I would love to just sit in a dark room, empty except for me and red cushioned chairs, and watch my grandparents' lives pass me by on a reel. I would spend my life watching theirs.

(And that includes my other grandfather, Lolo Mike. Let me use this as a reminder: I would also love to listen to him and turn those Burmese memories, experiences, thoughts, feelings, words, songs into something solid and good. Allow me the chance--while I still have it.)

I have many regrets, many wishes.

currently listening to amy winehouse's tears dry on their own and the lovely norah jones