She had written dozens of essays on him before. How he was her inspiration, how he helped her choose her major in college, and how he helped her discover her passions in life. He wasn’t only her grandpa, he was a best friend who did not know about a drinking ticket, her sex life, and fights she had with her little brother. Minor details, of course.
Now that this story, this memoir, she so passionately wanted to write was coming up inadequate. When she tried to start in the middle, or with a simple story, something would be missing when she was done. And like the 5 pages of writing before, she crossed it out with frustrated scribbles and lines.
And when she tried to write down events strictly, she got up to talking to Grandma on the phone and telling her to call her mom because she couldn’t get the words out. But not passed that. It was right before her mother told her, “Grandpa died.”
Never more.
The process of converting memories to page involved bringing emotions to the surface.
It gave her too much pain.