It Takes A Long Time To Realize Someone Is Actually Gone

My grandfather died this July, and just now it is beginning to sink in that he is really gone. He lived in San Diego and I live in Chicago, so I saw him maybe six times a year. But he always was in town around Christmas, and with that day gradually growing closer, I begin to realize that he really is gone.

For the past five years Gramps gave out the same Christmas present to pretty much everyone in the family - cashmere sweaters. He would pick a different color or a different cut, but the gift was the same: Land's End cashmere sweaters, and everyone always loved them. We have Christmas Eve at my uncle's house every year, and there my cousins, my sister and I would debate what the sweaters would look like. There was usually one color for the girls of the family and one color for the guys. The speculation went for both genders.

"This year, I'm thinking V-neck."
"No, we got V-neck last year, crew neck."
"Maybe it's a vest?"
"No way. No vest."

Usually about 15 minutes later we would move on to another topic.

I love my cashmere sweaters. I find it amazing how everyone in the family can enjoy the gift he gave each year knowing it was going to be the same gift as last year. This year, I added a sixth cashmere to my wardrobe, another gift from Gramps. Only this one was one he had in his home. My cousins, sister and I knew the sweaters he had (and he had a bunch) were too good and meant too much to him to give away. So on a summer day in San Diego, sitting in Gramps' bedroom with the sound of the Pacific Ocean in our ears and the sweet smell of San Diego flowers in our nostrils, we each took at least one.

Tonight, I miss my grandfather. And on Christmas Eve, I'm going to miss him even more.