It was unusually cold that day. Granted, it was February, but the callous wind was especially chilling as I walked through the parking lot to get to my car.

I threw my luggage in the trunk, got in the driver’s seat, and was pleasantly surprised by how warm it was inside of the car. The drive home alone was particularly peaceful after a long weekend spent surrounded by hundreds of high schoolers.

My mom asked me how my trip was as I dragged my luggage through the front doorway. I had just gotten back from a four-day trip to Washington D.C. for school, and I was exhausted. I replied that it was good, I guess, making it blatantly clear that I was not as excited to see her as she was to see me. She stopped me on my way to my bedroom, notably irritated by my insolence but with a foreign softness to her voice. Poppop is sick, she told me.

Of course he’s sick. He’s been sick for three years.

Too tired to hide my indifference to the subject, I responded with an exasperated “okay” before entering my room and shutting my door.

Poppop was a quiet man. With a wife and three children who could not seem to keep their mouths shut, he learned to sit and listen. When he would babysit me and my sister, he’d sit in silence watching jeopardy, calling out an answer from time to time. I’d sit there with him, amazed at how he could remember all of the answers so easily. If jeopardy wasn’t on, he’d be silent until he left, when he’d joyfully call out “see ya later alligator,” to which we’d unfailingly reply “in a while crocodile!” We’d watch as he got in his small red truck and drove away.

Every time I saw a little red truck on the road, I’d wave thinking it was Poppop. He was the only one with a red truck for all I knew. Poppop loved to drive. He’d take his truck out for hours just to drive around and look at the scenery. He couldn’t stand to be stuck in the same place for more than an hour. I remember sitting in his truck, enjoying the silence and the scenery with him sitting next to me.

When I was 15, Poppop began to forget things. It was harmless. What day the trash got picked up, what time his doctor’s appointment was, or where he put his eyeglasses were common concerns of his.
He’s just getting older. It’s nothing to worry about.
When I was 16, Poppop stopped addressing me by name. he’d say, “hey you” and give me a hug, hoping that I wouldn’t notice his fading memory. He soon stopped saying “I love you too” when I’d tell him I loved him over the phone or when saying goodbye. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t love me anymore. Little did I know, he didn’t know who I was anymore. We had to sell his red truck that year.

When I was 17, we put Poppop into a care facility. It wasn’t safe for him at home. He’d wander away from the house and get lost. I made sure to visit him every week to tell him stories and keep him company, but he wasn’t happy. Each day he ate the same food, talked to the same people, and became detached and isolated. He wasn’t the same man as before.

When I was 18, I forgot. I forgot who Poppop was. I forgot was it was like to have a grandfather. All I could see was a feeble-bodied man who couldn’t remember how to eat, walk, and talk. This man had forgotten me, and I forgot who he used to be.

When my mom asked me if I wanted to visit him that day I was hesitant. I didn’t want to. I felt emotionally disconnected from the man we called Poppop, but I decided to go.

I couldn’t understand why I didn’t love him anymore.

What I saw that day wasn’t Poppop. His lips were blue, his skin was pale and purple, his hair was a matted sheet of grey, and his hands were tangled masses of dark blue knuckles and bone-white fingers. He looked dead. The only sound in the room was the sharp snap the oxygen tank made each time he took a breath. 

My mom sat down on the edge of the bed and grabbed his hands. I couldn’t bring myself to do the same. I didn’t know this man. I sat off to the side on the room’s heater. My mom shared memories of her childhood.
He’s dying. The words shocked me out of my distracted state. I quickly stood up.

He’s dying right now. My mom looked at me, concerned. The nurse walked in, confirmed my mom’s claim, and gave us a few moments with him before he was gone for good.

I slowly sat back down on the heater and watched Poppop grow cold.

For a while I wondered how my mom did it. How she didn’t lose Poppop and how she still loved him through his disease. Now I know that I lost Poppop because I couldn’t remember.

Every time I see a small red truck I remember the quiet man who watched jeopardy and had an insatiable sweet tooth.  I remember how he hated the beach but loved his grandchildren so he went anyways, and I remember his massive glasses and gap-toothed smile. I remember what we both couldn’t when he was sick.

I can love him now because I remember.