Yesterday the son of the lady I know was in a car accident. I don’t know how bad it was or any of the details, but as expected she was upset about it. I meant to call her yesterday to see how her son was, but the truth is I’m almost afraid to ask because I don’t know that I really want to know the answer. I also thought that if it was really serious then she may not want to hear from people at this time, so I’ll wait until tomorrow and see if there is anything she may need.

Things like this always make me think about my own mortality and it brings back various memories of different people who have all passed on during my lifetime. I was actually thinking about my grandfather this morning and about all the different memories I have of him; from sitting outside on the porch of my grandmother’s house listening to his stories that were filled with magic and always involved relatives from the past and present, to helping him plant a garden that my grandmother would love until the day she died, to walking to the store with him and always getting gum, candy or some other treat that my mom was not too fond of me having before dinner. Of all the memories I have the best one is when we first moved to Vegas.

There is this pizza place back home that I used to love. As a teenager, my friends and cousins were always hanging out there - it was our hangout. I’m sure it was the hangout to many teenagers, but that didn’t matter because no matter how many other people were there it was always “our place”. I not only went there with friends, I would go with my family too, especially when I was younger. My grandfather and I would go eat there almost every weekend - it was one of those things that I really looked forward to, not only for the company but because it was the best pizza in the whole entire world, well at least that’s what I used to think, but again, I was very young at the time and the planet didn‘t seem so big back then. Every time we would go out to eat I’d want to go eat at this particular pizza place, even now when I go back home someone related to me will still take me to eat there, usually my cousin Mari - and you know, I still think it just may be the best pizza in the world. Soon after we moved to Vegas my grandfather came to visit. I was excited that he was coming because there were so many Vegas sights I wanted to show him and I wanted to hear his stories again before I got too old and stopped believing in the magic that was woven throughout the adventures he would spin. I remember waiting anxiously for his flight to arrive. At that time you could actually wait at the gate for flights to arrive and you could stand there with balloons and signs welcoming your loved ones. I stood watching as one person after another walked through the hallway into the waiting area and into the arms of loved ones. It seemed like forever before I saw my grandfather making his way down the corridor. I ran up to him and gave him a big hug. At the time he seemed like this tall, larger than life man who would always be there for me. I never felt that he wouldn’t nor did I know just how little time I had with him.

He gave me a big hug and then handed me a pizza box from the pizza place back home. It was early in the day so he had called the manager the day before and told him that he wanted to bring a pizza from Texas to Vegas for his grandson, the manager went in early and made the pizza so my grandfather would be able to bring it to me. Thinking back on it now, it makes me smile and yet it makes my eyes fill with tears of sadness at the same time. We went home and we all enjoyed the pizza as my grandfather told us one last tale of how he met my grandmother and how they danced under the stars and he knew they were destined to be together since the day they were born.

While he was here in Vegas my grandfather got sick. One day my mom walked into the room he was staying and found him laying on the floor unconscious. They rushed him to the hospital where he stayed until the night he died.

I felt like that scared little kid who ran down the alley swinging my book bag as the dogs barked and jumped at me from behind fences while I ran home after school. I never wanted to go down that alley but I had to everyday. I hate hospitals and I never wanted to go to the hospital when he was sick, but I had to go everyday. I remember walking into the hospital room and watching as the machine did his breathing and feeling so sad and helpless. I wanted to lean over and whisper in his ear that I loved him and that I was sorry for lighting that firecracker under his chair while he took an afternoon nap on the porch when I was eight years old. I didn’t know if he could hear me or not - a part of me thought that he couldn’t. Maybe he was already gone and he would hear nothing of what I said, but at the same time I really believed that I had more time with him and I thought that he was going to get better so I never told him what I wanted to say because I thought I would tell him when he got better and left the hospital. I believed with all my heart that he was going to pull through and that we would all sit at the dinner table and I would tell him what he meant to me and how he shaped my life. It was with that thought that I left the hospital, planning that dinner in my mind. That night I got the call from my mom telling me that he had died - I never got to tell him that I loved him or that I was sorry for setting off that firecracker under his chair as he took an afternoon nap on the porch when I was eight years old. I never said the things I wanted to say to him.

I’d like to think that deep down he knew these things, I just wish I had said them to him…