Pop-Pop...

Fourteen years (and exactly half my life) ago, my grandfather died. It was a Friday afternoon.

At the time, I was a freshman at a boarding school in Maryland.

My grandfather – a long time smoker – had been diagnosed with lung cancer the year before. Despite all efforts, the cancer spread to his brain.

I knew he wasn’t doing well, but I didn’t realize the end was so close.

That weekend, I had signed up to go Williamsburg, Virginia with some of my schoolmates. It was a trip I had been looking forward to for weeks. In fact I had just finished packing for it, when my mother called to tell me that she had booked me on a flight back to Dallas the following day. Pop-Pop wasn’t doing well. I would be coming home to say, “Goodbye”.

The next morning, the school transported me to the airport where I boarded a plane to Texas. I remember falling asleep, and dreaming of my grandfather. I woke up thinking that I was too late. That he had already died.

My mother was waiting for me at the gate when my plane arrived. I could tell something was wrong from the moment I saw her, but dismissed it as worry for her sick father. It was only after we had claimed my bag and were walking to the car that she told me that Pop-Pop had passed away. He had died while I was on the plane. I was ninety minutes too late.

Sometimes I think about that dream I had on the airplane. I wish I could remember all of the details. I was close to my grandfather, and I’ve often wondered if the dream was his way of saying “goodbye” to me. I’d like to think so, at least.

I can still hear him saying my name – even after all these years. He called me “Deal”, but always drew it out so it sounded like: “Deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeal!”

I miss that.

I miss him.

I don’t think that will ever go away.