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Posts Tagged ‘love’

Love always, Jim

It is a long-standing tradition for my Mum, Grandma, and Aunt, to write one another poems for their wedding anniversaries. Without a doubt, they have touched on every topic you could imagine, from being the ultimate animal-lover, to aging and deafness, to the sillyness and joy in raising children and of course the always popular and fun toilet or dirty humour.

They’ve written some truly great poems over the years, but this one is particularly touching. My Mum just wrote this one for my grandparents would-be 55th wedding anniversary, and I asked her if I could share it here on my blog. Here it is:

Dear Betty,

Pity we fell short of 55 years,
Sorry my death brought forth your tears.
Remember the good times and the bad,
It gives balance to the years we had.

Look out for the kids like we always did,
No matter how old; to us they’re still kids.
Watch the grandkids mature and find their way,
You’ve lots of love and wisdom to send and say.

I’ve always loved you; I know you knew,
Even when disease kept me from telling you.
One day, God willing, we’ll be together, a pair.
Til then, my love, keep strong, live well and don’t despair.

Love always,
Jim

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A great man lost

Dear Grampy,

You left us yesterday. Rather, your body finally gave way to the ailments you had been struggling with for some time now. Because the Grampy I knew and loved had actually been missing for some time. The problem with Alzheimer’s is that I can’t pin-point the moment that you had forgotten me, the moment that you no longer understood you were a beloved grandfather. I’ve gotta say that Alzheimer’s disease is a real motherfucker. Although it left your body with us, your mind and spirit were gone.

But we are left with memories of you and your life. Both good and bad ones. But mostly good ones. Reminicing last night and today with mum&dad and Grammy, I learned a few stories I hadn’t heard before. Like how it is that your two daughters are so easily able to get in touch with their foul-mouthed-selves. In your younger days, you were a pro at firing off curse words to your fellow drivers. So pro in fact, that your little girl Nancy, exclaimed quite proudly during one of many car trips: “Jesus Christ Dad, 3 buses!” I heard about your adventures in plumbing, where every other word was ‘fuck’ or ‘goddamn’. Oh, and the time that you caught the biggest fish ever, and after having Nancy snap several picture of you with your glorious catch, discovered a few days later there was in fact no film in the camera. Oh the times you had!

And what about my memories? I will always remember you as a giant. I looked up to you both physically, and as a role model. You embodied so many admirable qualities: you worked hard to support and care for your family, you cherished the times spent with family and friends, you never took life too seriously, and you made your voice and opinions heard. You always told me to pursue my dreams, it was important not to lose sight of what you wanted to get out of life. You taught me to drive. Your booming laugh was always so contagious. And we could always, always count on our favourite lines at family gatherings: you calling Grammy, “little girl”; always asking “Is it free?” when invited for dinner or offered desserts; and asking me if I was being good and staying out of trouble. Let’s not forget about those phonecalls that would start with “Hi Rach, it’s your stupid grandfather calling for more computer help”. All these memories and words I will hold with me.

This week was difficult. It was emotionally draining and physically exhausting. I had tried to get myself to start my yoga this week, but every morning I woke up I could not for the life of me motivate myself to go. Until this morning, after you were gone. Truthfully, I think I was scared to leave the house and miss the call. And so when I finally made it to hot yoga, it was a cathartic experience for sure. I found myself crying a little during a couple postures and knew my body was releasing the grief and the tension I had been holding in all week. Grief and tension that me and my family had all been feeling.

You are gone now, and it’s still hard to grasp. I feel as though I am still waiting to see you walk through the front door with your bright red coat, and your big grin. Family get-togethers will not be the same without you. But rest assured, your memory will live on when we talk about you, and use your classic one-liners.

Love you Gramps,

Rach

Jim Driscoll, May 30 1931 - January 6 2011

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