picked up right where they left off, as they had a habit of doing this dance. It was common for them to lose communication for a few months now and then. The problem, however, was that he ignored her during the time when she needed him desperately. The timing was, to my mother, unforgivable. For nine years, at least. As far back as I can remember, my mom preached to me the necessity of independence, though her definition of it may differw from most others’. She taught me to build up walls and to shut people out, acts which I have since learned are not necessary. She told me that even the closest people in my life should not be totally trusted, because that gave them the power to hurt me. These likely were philosophies learned in her childhood, being bounced back and forth between her divorced parents and always feeling unwanted. In my own childhood, I emulated my mom by ignoring family members I did not like. I had little to no sense of attachment outside of my immediate family. I was distrustful of my grandpa when he returned in our lives. I was, at the time, the least willing to give him a chance. My mom never encouraged me to forgive him, as she said it was my choice.
There are only a few pictures of him with my younger sister, and even fewer with my younger brother, the baby of the family. He reappears in our family photos when I am fifteen. It almost appears as though he never left. Most people likely would not notice his temporary absence when flipping through the pages. The day my grandpa came to the house, my mom explained why he was absent from our lives for nine years. She told us that she had ended her contact with him after my brother was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis. My brother had been two at the time of his diagnosis and had been in and out of the hospital for much of his young life at that point. My mom, searching for some light in the darkness, reached out to her father for consolation. My grandpa did not answer her call, nor did he return it, at that time. It seemed he did not know what to say to my mom. My mom, stubborn, hurt, no longer had anything to say to him. I do not know at exactly what point in those nine, silent years, my grandpa started calling again. I suspect it was just months after that initial missed call. If not for the timing, my mom likely would have answered his calls and they would have
The experience with my mom and grandpa eventually taught me that ignoring people is a waste of precious time. I have never asked him, nor has he mentioned it, but surely my grandpa wishes he was in the photo album from start to finish. I will never understand why it took him nine years to show up at our house, or why he did not return that first call from my mom after hearing her heartbreaking voicemail. After all, if you are going to forgive someone, or to ask for forgiveness, what is the difference between now and nine years from now? Although it may not be possible to keep in constant contact with everyone I love, and though I may miss a phone call here or there, I always return them. I have no ill will towards my grandpa; however, we do not talk every week, or even every month. He works a lot for an old man, and though I try to make myself available for friends and family, there will always be instances when life simply gets in the way. Even though most of the time he does not reply, I still text my grandpa every now and then. On the rare occasion when he texts me first, I always reply.
