I'm sitting in a bar near my house at like, right in the morning, drinking hard cider and contemplating what to eat. And you're still on my mind after yesterday. I like going home and seeing your daughter, my mom, and all, but anytime I let myself get distracted at home, I let my eyes wander. Then I see the reminders. You've got a picture on the end of mom's bed, on the end table. That's the one that I told people reminded me of you. We have the same facial features, the same hilariously awful receding hair line (thanks for that, by the way =)) and the same overconfident, "yeah, I'm pretty awesome, how's that feel to be in the air of me?" look that hides both of our insecurities.
You never thought you did enough for Brenda. You worked and worked until you couldn't. I don't have vivid memories of you anymore, replaced likely by foolish thoughts that my brain decided had temporary more importance than you. If I could operate this grey fleshy mass like a computer, I'd frantically be digging through the memory, trying to find you. I can't remember what you sound like anymore. I can't remember when the last time I even think I could tell you is. I actually sat in the bar and in my head tried to say a few sentences the way I thought you would. I actually had to remove all the vulgarity from my typical speak, because in my mind, you're a saint, so I don't see you using that. Man, I don't remember you ever yelling at me. Even when I would sleep with you and grandma all the time, even when I'd mess up the bed or piss myself or whatever. Just calm, stoic, Lee.
On the plus side, at least by seeing you, and feeling like I have a firm grasp on the man you were, I know where my bad and terrible attributes come. My evils come not from my mother, aside from my neurotic, paranoid nature and a touch of OCD, neither of which strike me as particularly upsetting. They come not from you, either. Maybe it's the joy of having a selective memory, but I don't remember a flaw about you, and I was with you until I was nine.
Don't get me wrong, I know why you have to be gone. Life wouldn't be fair if every one of us suddenly could pick and choose how long we get with the people we love. And it makes me realize how bad I neglect to talk to grandma. I know she's a chatterbox (c'mon, grandpa, you do, I know you're up there nodding and chuckling to yourself right now) but that was your wife, and she deserves someone to talk about her cats and her stories and her foot pain with too, damn it.
You know, I don't remember how long ago it was, but someone told me, at some family function, that I was starting to look like you. Obviously, with the mop top hair, the weird, ill fitting clothes, and the quirky mannerisms I've developed, I don't know how much that honestly fits. But, shit, man, you were handsome. Total. Lady. Slayer. So, one of these days, when I learn to stop putting weird shit in my face and how to cut my hair and how to learn not to leave that weird mustache when I think it looks hipster (because we both know, our family, man, we can't do mustaches, we look creepy. Addams Family creepy) and maybe I'll be handsome like you.
You were my dad growing up. Never have met Mr. Bunger. Never want to. Don't want his name tainting mine. You (and to a lesser extent, James) facilitated me into, well, whatever I've turned out to be. But I just wanted to write it out. In case my stupid belief in there being no God and heaven and shit is wrong, and you're looking over my shoulder, waiting for me to grow up. I'm trying. Sometimes it doesn't look like it, but I'm pushing this tattered brain of mine as hard as I can. I'll figure out a way to make you proud. I mean it. I'll change the world.
But, I'm going to stop. I hope heaven is awesome. I hope the big man lets you have your cigars, man. And I hope we can play catch again someday.
I'm pretty decent now. Thanks, grandpa.
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