I was five years old when my mom sat my
two older brothers and I down on my childhood bed. She fumbled with
the words, not knowing how to begin. The telling was hard for her.
Her father had died.
Died? What did that even mean? I looked
to the other people on the bed for how I should react.
My mother was crying. My oldest brother
looked unsurprised at the news, but terribly sad. My other brother
was shocked and crying.
I felt like I should ask some
questions, because I sure didn't understand what was happening. Yet,
this didn't seem like the right time to raise my hand.
After a pause for the information to
sink in, my mother continued. “You know, while this means you can't
see Granddaddy in person, he'll always be there, watching over you.”
Always?
Puzzled, and still working out what had
just happened, I walked out of the room with my brothers. I tried to
feel sad like them, but I was too young to understand what it all meant.
I mulled over the words my mother said,
but the more I thought about it, the less it made sense. If
Granddaddy was watching over me, that meant that somehow, he was here
with me. What about my brothers? My mom? My Grand Mother? He couldn't
be with all of us all the time, could he? Did this mean we all had to
stay in the same place now?
What about the times when I didn't want
anyone watching? Would
Granddaddy see everything
I did now? I would think about this when I lit my doll on fire playing with a lighter, when I snuck out of the house after being grounded, when I got caught hiding others'
belongings in my play kitchen. Was Granddaddy watching? I cringed to
think he had seen me at my worst.
I
thought about it most when we were at Grand Mother's house.
After
walking into the bathroom, as I closed the door, I would plead
quietly, “Granddaddy, if you're here, please don't watch.”
Just
in case.
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