I didn't know what to name this post.
GrandPaul's funeral was hard. It made me realize how little I actually knew this man, which was hard to admit to myself because he and I were so close and we had a bond that everyone acknowledged. But people were reminiscing, telling stories about his life and I got decently angry at the fact that I had never heard those stories from him. I was mad that I had started to communicate with him via letters and emails only nine years ago. Granted, he lived in Florida for all of my life and him and my mom never had the greatest of relationships. But still… I wish I had put in more effort than I already had. I hate to say this… but I was mad that Irene was in the position she is: his wife of only three years. How do you get to be the one that receives the flag that was folded in his honor? Or the bullet shells shot in his name? But I can’t be upset at her…she was with him through this whole process. She slept on a couch the whole time he was in hospice. How can I be mad at that? I can’t be…
I realize that all of these other emotions are just coming up because I’m sad. I’m excruciatingly sad. The fact that he’s gone doesn’t really make sense right now. But I will rest in the comfort of the knowledge that he is no longer in pain and that he is with God.
It will take time, I know.