Standing still in a directionless grief

I didn’t see him as my compass until I felt so lost without him

Jul 08, 2024

I’ve felt very indecisive since my grandfather passed, like I feel devoid of purpose now that it’s not being his devoted granddaughter. Out of all the complicated emotions I’ve been experiencing, this has been the most unexpected form of grief.

Per usual for me, I write through the pain, trying to find clarity in the mud. Thank you for being here <3

The second address I ever memorized after my own was that of my grandparents’ yellow-bricked house. I learned the route long before the numbers: exit right from the highway, left at the traffic light at the bottom of the hill, left at the funeral home, right onto Ryan Drive. Even as an adult, I couldn’t type it into Google Maps if I tried; I know the way only through my childhood eyes, tracing unnamed streets through my imaginative memory.

When I was in college, I felt magnetized to my grandfather from 300 miles away; a little red needle that always trembled north. During my post-university years I was drawn to Pittsburgh without logical explanation; just little sentimental tugs over the course of time like a fishing line bobbing in still water.

I moved back during what would be the last two years of his life, renting a studio apartment in a neighborhood 15 minutes from his, giving us many Olive Garden lunches and afternoon coffees. We sat together while he smoked vanilla cigars and watched Sunday Steelers games in his shag-carpeted basement. We were each other’s chauffeur, never criticizing the other’s driving.

I didn’t see him as my compass until I felt so lost without him, standing stuck in the wet cement of grief. I can barely remember the aspirations I had before he was diagnosed with cancer—where I wanted to have my work published, the tattoos I may have sketched, the cities I was interested in visiting—because I was suddenly incapable of daydreaming, clinically unable to imagine my future without him in it.

It’s painful for me to remember that he’d only ever met my failed partners and will never meet the right one; that I can’t call him when my labor strike ends. I feel less safe knowing that he’ll never again inspect another future apartment’s front door; saddened that he’ll never know the names of my future cats or children or apply decals to the next car I drive.

Being fully committed to him and my sadness through eight months of cancer, I don’t know how to cope with this severe of a heartbreak: to keep him alive while honoring his death; to move forward without moving on. Author Sloane Crosley asked it best: How do I keep you buried and keep you with me at the same time?1

Day to day, I light candles, pull tarot and cry for him until my skin feels sticky. I say good morning and goodnight to his black-and-white Polaroid propped on my dresser and harmonize with Johnny Cash. I buy the pricy, imported Parmesan from the grocery store and forcibly acquired a taste for Pinot Grigio.

All of this because I crave the kind of guidance he gave me when reversing out of his narrow driveway: standing in the grass waving his arms like air traffic control, making sure I safely rounded the bend.

Feature Photo by Beto Galetto on Unsplash