Feeble. That’s what they call you; your mind and body are decaying. You repeat yourself, telling me the same stories over and over again. Sometimes, you think I’m your daughter. You don’t have a daughter. I’m your granddaughter, your eldest son’s second child.
I miss you when you aren’t around. I miss you when I’m away at school. I live in fear of the day I get that call or email telling me you’ve passed. I don’t want to see that day. I fear that I might be a million miles away. I’m scared of life with out you.
I will never see you as feeble. You will always be my Pompa. You will always be the one I watch crazy bad sci-fi movies with. I want to sit out on the back deck with you again and watch the birds and squirrels and deer while drinking tea and talking about the weather and the fishing in the Sound.
Next time I visit, I’m taking you out for dinner and I don’t want to hear any complaining. Don’t worry, we won’t go to some gimmicky place like Texas Roadhouse. I will never understand Dad and Kathy’s obsession with that place. We’ll go someplace nice, like that Italian place that changes its name every month, but the food stays the same.
It’s morbid and sad, but I know my time with you is limited and I want to make the best of it. I love you, you’ve always been my favorite relative. You’ve supported my every decision and stood up for me when everyone told me I couldn’t do it.
I’m blessed to call you my Pompa.