sillysun.com

We went home for Easter last weekend. (I persist in mentally referencing the town I grew up in as ‘home,’ although I’ve spent all my adult life living hours away.) As weekends go, it was a mixed bag, though I was glad to be there.

The good was completely unexpected. John was attempting to work some magic on my mom’s uncooperative computer, and while he was flipping through a basket of old floppy disks, he came across one with his own handwriting on the label.

We glanced at each other confusedly; it didn’t ring any immediate bells. But he popped the disk in and opened up the lone file stored on it, and then we were clued in.

Poetry. John’s poetry. From high school. And some of it made us howl with glee, and some of it made us share a smile. We were different then, and yet so many things are the same. There are a lot of things about my high school days I don’t consciously revisit; John and the foundations we laid then are obvious exceptions.

The not-so-good was as simple as picking up the phone to call my grandma and tell her what time we’d be there the next day. She didn’t answer. I heard the beep of an answering machine, and three seconds later, I was leaning into the wall, sobbing. It was my grandpa’s voice asking me to leave a message, in those warm, kind tones I’ve missed so much.

I didn’t know; I wasn’t ready. I understand the reasons for leaving it that way - she misses him, too, and she feels safer having his voice on the machine. Maybe it makes her feel less alone.

But I doubt it.