Huh. That was quick.

My grandfather died this morning.

So, technically, they didn't have time to "stop" the dialysis, the chemo, the radiation, or do anything else. Except give him some morphine to make his pain better. Which, hopefully, he should have already been getting.

I'm guessing he just let go.

I'm really sad.

Still haven't decided if I'm going to go home for the services. It turns out it's going to be a huge hassle, and you know what? As much as I want to have time to grieve, and as much as I want to support my family...I find no solace in funerals. They do not give me closure. They're a cultural rite based on an illogical belief that amounts to reanimation. I'm telling you, cremate me, scatter me to the wind, or dump me in a nice, biodegradable pine box, or, whatever is easiest. Then sit down and have good food and good wine and tell stories about me and laugh hard and cry for reasons both mirthful and sorrowful, and talk and laugh (and dance if the spirit moves you) deep into the night. Honor me, don't mourn me. Leave feeling better. I'll be dancing down my own path, the good energy from those interactions fueling me forward.

Anyway...

So, the thing about it is, he wasn't technically my grandfather; actually, I guess he was my grandfather-in-law. This was my mom's brother's wife's dad (so, my aunt's father). But, as I've said about a million and a half times on here, we're Greek. So, there really is no, Christmas at one family's house, Thanksgiving at the other, none of that stuff, our families just all mush together. So I grew up with them as my grandparents. Well, you know, more or less. It's complicated.

(Can you tell? If the look of my face doesn't say "complicated" loudly enough for you, count the bunnies, and then count the kids. But damn, we were cute, though, weren't we?)

But the point was, it never was with Costa. He was a good man. Always loved me like I was flesh and blood. Couldn't tell a joke to save his life, which made them somehow hysterical..one Thanksgiving, he was trying to tell us this joke from his Greek Joke a Day calendar, right? And he keeps talking - all old and cute, in his thick accent and broken English - about a ship, which made NO sense. And we're all sitting around the table getting more and more confused, and my aunt finally says to him, "ena ploiyo?" (at least, that's the Greek word I know for "ship"). And he gets all upset with us, and says, "No! No! A ship! The ship! You know....baa, baa, baa. The ship!"

I might actually have fallen out of my chair. It took a good five minutes for any semblance of order to return to the dinner table, and even then...

He taught me how to know how many days there were in the month. Apparently, if you make a fist, and you start counting at the outer knuckle, and you count the months off as you go across your hand - knuckles and valleys, and double up on the knuckle at the end when you reverse - the months you name when pointing to the valleys don't have 31 days. Try it - Jan (knuckle), Feb (valley), March (knuckle), April (valley), May (knuckle), June (valley), July, August (both on the far knuckle), September (valley, coming back towards you), October (knuckle), November (valley), December (knuckle). Cool, huh? Now, frankly, "30 days has November, April, June, and September" had worked just fine for me up until then. And, of course, I had a doctoral degree when he taught me this.

It was sweet.

I also remember, in a time when I was feeling a little like, well, the redheaded grandchild, him slipping me money at a church picnic. All very hush-hush, don't let your grandmother know. I never even told my other grandmother. I think it might have taken me a couple of years to tell my mom. It was a really nice feeling, knowing that I was important enough to warrant sneakiness.

My papou was 94, still walked to church every now and then when the weather was nice, still baked bread every weekend. He taught me how to carve a turkey. He taught me a lot about baking. Last year, he told me a story about how, back when he was a cook in the army, he made these pies, and instead of taking a bag of sugar off the shelf, he took an identical bag that was right next to the sugar, except he didn't notice it was labeled "salt." And the soldiers had been so excited about the pies, because let me tell you, the man could cook, and he didn't realize the mistake until the pies had been served. But some seventy-odd years later, he still got all welled up when he told me how bad he felt about letting his men down.

The men ate the pies anyway. Because they thought that much of him.

Me, too.

Goodbye, Papouli. I'm sorry I couldn't be the kind of granddaughter I wanted to be, but, you know how I tried, you know why I couldn't. Hope you're enjoying Heaven. Hope it's everything you expected it to be. Say hi to Toula. Tell my other Yiayia how much I miss her (but first tell her I said, hey, y'all! It's a Southern thing, she'll be amused). Same to her sister, if you see her. Sorry you won't be seeing my other Papou...if the afterlife turns out to be anything like you all anticipated it to be, I have a feeling he, and my great-uncle, could be otherwise engaged. But I have no doubt they're somewhere equally special.

Hey, though, save me some bread, huh?

Wow, am I going to miss you...