Moving on through sharing stories

I can’t really help but write this article because it is just in my nature. When I lose something it is really hard for me to move on, and not just in the stereotypical sense. I am the kind of person who still thinks about the corgi themed sock I lost doing laundry a month ago. I mean, it’s been over a year since I wrote an article on how much I will miss my childhood dog, and my opinion piece picture is still me and my dog. So is my Twitter, Instagram and even Linkdin pictures.

I can’t help but share with people all the great things about what I lose.

Which leads me to here. I want to share someone else that was important to me that I lost over winter break, my grandpa. Part of it is me continuing to cope with the sudden loss, and part of it is me just wanting to share the things I lose.

My grandpa was amazing. He wasn’t the kind of guy who would tell you he loved you so explicitly, but you can see it in the smaller ways. I would send him issues of The Denisonian and he would mail back $20 and a note that said “Keep up the good work and get a pizza on me.” I knew that was him saying he loved me and he was proud of what I was doing at school.

Growing up in Youngstown, Ohio, he didn’t have any choice but to grow up tough. He was strong. It is the kind of strength I only wish I had. He didn’t let setbacks keep him down. When he broke his leg in his 70’s, he didn’t call for an ambulance or help. He could do anything on his own. His strength and determination reminded me that the world doesn’t wait for you.

My grandpa was also a teacher. Not in a traditional sense, but in the ways he taught my dad how to act and the way my dad taught me the same lessons. He taught us to be smart and think ahead, but not to be sloppy. He made sure we were respectful and genuine. I was actually a little intimidated by my grandpa, because I knew he had all this life in him and stories of his past that were moments I may never experience. The tales my dad would tell me to ask my grandpa about were better than any book I could read.

Lastly, my grandpa was an artist. He worked for as an iron artisan and he created so many beautiful iron pieces for the city of Youngstown. The impact he made on the community was evident when so many people that my family had never meant showed up at my grandpa’s funeral. From his work to his ideals of fair kindness, his legacy lives on physically and spiritually in that city. Everytime I go back, I know that pieces of my grandpa are scattered around in beautiful works of iron.

The problem, however, is that every time I go back I expect him to be there. That’s what I do. I expect the things I lose to show up one day. I expect my dog to jump up on my everytime I go home, my sock to somehow fall out of my drawer and my grandpa to be sitting next to my grandma in Youngstown.

I think I am just scared. I know deep down that nothing comes back, and it is scary. I already lost two amazing grandparents before this so I know how loss goes. I just can’t help but share. Maybe one say all the stories will be told and I can move on, but I haven’t had a day like that yet. So, for now I guess I’ll keep sharing.

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