Every Thanksgiving my great aunt, my grandfather's sister, comes up from Connecticut to have dinner with us. In the past she's just been another person at the table to me. I don't really know her, I don't know her branch of the family at all, and I doubt I ever really will. For some reason, today was different. Today, when I looked at her I saw my grandfather. I saw him, alive, conscious, and vivacious. I saw all the life that has drained from his eyes in hers.
She talked to my mother and grandmother about my grandfather. About what he was like this afternoon when she visited him, how him recognizing her made her day. She talked about how he loved to dance, dipping and spinning whoever his partner was no matter how much experience they had as a dancer. She talked about how as kids her protected her and looked out for her, insisting she tag along no matter what he was doing.
I hung on every word she said. I tried to soak it all up, every last drop of information she had to share.
And I felt so insanely guilty about it.
Who am I to care? Who am I to desire information about a man I don't have the courage to visit? I won't go see him because I'm too afraid of tainting my memories of him and yet I'll leach off other people's memories who have the strength to go and visit him. I had to leave the room so that no one saw the tears in my eyes. I was being so selfish, I couldn't stand myself. It made me sick.
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