My grandpa: the guy I knew I could always count on. The best friend a girl could ask for. My person. He was the man I imagined as a superhero, he knew everything and not one thing could phase him. Until he was diagnosed with cancer.

Long before he was sick, my grandpa was the guy everyone knew; he spent time at the bars, fishing tournaments, our school functions, and occasionally church. It was no surprise to look over as I was serving the ball during one of my volleyball games, and see him standing in the doorway, taking pictures with his iPhone he had no idea how to work. Or looking out from the stage at a concert and see him sitting in the audience with the biggest smile on his face. Gradually his appearance faded from the crowd. I couldn’t look out to see him, watching him cheer me on, hearing his voice over all others. I miss that.

As days passed, he got worse, then eventually he moved in with us. His chair still sits in the same spot he placed it the day he moved in. The carpet is indented where the chair sits, like the memories of him are forever in our minds. The table next to it is still filled with all of his things. Fishing hooks, candy wrappers, nail polish, colored pencils, his pulse oximeter, inhalers, and his deck of Danica Patrick playing cards. These things belong there, as if his presence is still there in his chair. Every time I walk passed it, I still glance for a second, imagining he is there with the remote in his hand, oxygen attached to his face, and a tub of candy on his lap. I wish I could see him like that one more time.           

Helping him some days was a hassle, but if I could relive just one of those days again I would. Get up at 5:30, make coffee with some scrambled eggs and toast. Watch the weather with him. Sit outside and talk about stuff. Get him another cup of coffee and his cookies from the kitchen. Later in the day, put Icy Hot on his back to ease the pain of chemo and make sure to get him all of his medicine. Go back to the kitchen and make him a sandwich from the left over chicken with mayonnaise and lots of salt and pepper. Then sit around and wait for a message that says he needs something else. Around midnight or two in the morning I’d see his name pop up, and I’d run like the wind into the living room. He’d smile when I came in, and I’d see the pile of snacks he had on his lap, waiting for him to offer me something. He’d ask for a glass of pop and would tell me to get one for myself too. Then we’d watch Criminal Minds all hours of the night, eating too many snacks, and drinking too much pop. He’d make me promise not to tell my mom.

The messages on my phone, the hour and a half phone calls, those are the things I want back. Waking up to a “goodmornin sweets” text from him at 5:30 every day, even while in the same house. Talking on the phone while I walked across town because talking to him made me feel safe, like he could save me through the phone. Receiving snapchats at random times of the day, each selfie having a different filter. Saving each and every voicemail he left, even ones that were pointless. I look back to these and realize how they never seemed very important until now.

There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to go back to a time when I had my grandpa here with me. To listen to his voice one more time, telling me a joke or telling me how proud he was of me. His hugs, the ones where nothing else in the world matters because you know you’re safe there. To be able to catch him up on my life, even though I know he’s been watching, and to hear his advice. I miss it all, every bit, even the worst times.

But most of all I just miss him.