{memories}

I don't remember a whole lot about last November--partly because I don't want to and partly because there are so many other good things to remember.
I do recall, however, one of the last conversations I had with my Papa. It was early November of last year. He was pretty sick but still sitting out in the living room and not just in his bedroom. I was recovering from an eye injury and I was tired of laying on our couch at home. So, I decided to go lay on his couch. He was sleeping when I got there so I just snuggled up on the couch and closed my eyes. After about ten minutes, my mom had wandered into the other room and he quietly asked how I was feeling. I smiled and told him I was doing good. He smiled back. Then we both resumed our naps.
At the time I don't really remember anything unusual about this conversation--probably because thats just the man my Grandpa was: others before himself. It was normal. But, looking back, I realize that there I was with an eye injury that wasn't all that serious in comparison to stage four lung cancer. But, yet, he wanted to know how I was doing.
He passed away the day before Thanksgiving and this year the date happens to fall on Thanksgiving. I'm not sure how I feel about this. I'm thankful that the very last thing he said to me was, "I love you, Aly" and I'm thankful for all the good, good memories. But, at the same time, I'm sad. Death is painful and messy and so, so real. I don't think there is anything more real than death. I'm a little mad still. Seventeen is way too young to lose anybody. Let alone your only grandparent. But, this year, I'm not going to conentrate on that. Or at least try not to. I'm going to concentrate on how blessed I was to have him in my life for those seventeen years.

"You will find as you look back upon your life that the moments when you have truly lived are the moments when you have done things in the spirit of love," -Henry Drummond
   

On Getting Home

Chattering teeth, chapped hands, wind swirling through my hair. Finally the bus rushes to the curb. I step on and the driver nods. I don't need to show my pass; he knows my red cheeks and blue lips by now. An older woman is eating chicken soup under the sign that says "No food or drink" in big block letters. She has creases in her head and mismatched socks. Nobody seems to mind. A genetleman with a cane is reading a crumpled paper and a mother tries to shush her crying baby. A couple holds hands in the back seat. It is busy today. Almost all the plastic seats are filled with people bundled in coats and scarves and backpacks and shopping bags. People with faces and names and stories. I would love to hear their stories sometime, but not now. I have homework to start. I jam an earbud inside my ear and take a seat by a young man in a plaid bowtie. I smile and he smiles back. I shove my backpack under the seat and start reading. The words rattle around in my head like the orphaned penny on the ground. The bus rushes through the streets, stopping every once and a while to invite other thankful passengers into its warm arms. Rain pelts the windows and everybody squeezes together to make room for a wheelchair passenger. We continue rushing through the dark streets lit by a soft orange glow."The normal?" the driver asks. I realize he is talking to me. I smile and nod. He stops the bus and I grap my backpack. A rush of waves and nods see me to the door. I smile. "See you all tomorrow," I say as I step into the rain and rush to my front door.