grandpa cheney

Spring 2019

Watching him take his last breaths did something to my soul. I didn’t feel like I thought I would. They didn’t cry like I thought they would. Instead they asked things like, “are we going to burry him or keep him right here?” “Do you think he will come back as a monkey or a dog?”

We laugh nervously at how comfortable they are with something we are not. Nothing lasts forever and this is the most beautifully tragic truth.

I feel a unique pressure to tell him and ask him things I never did before. I knew this was coming. I don’t have regrets, I just wonder why I waited. I’m more curious than anything. I don't even know what I would say or ask, it just feels unfinished and final, two things that scare me. And I don't want to be scared of anything.

I rub his feet, kiss his head, and thank him for the gift of life, for his love of music and dance passed through our blood, and his humble commitment to the underdog. Maybe he will come back as a dog.