Larry Vaughn Culbertson Sr.

Grief didn’t play by the rules. He lied silently in waiting minutes after the words met my ears. He tucked himself underneath the table where I sat as my kids came running in with their laughs and requests and general weekendy behavior. When I flew home the following morning to be with my family, he tried with no avail to squeeze his way into our circle, but the joy of seeing each other for the first time in the longest time we’ve ever been apart kept him an outsider. I thought he’d given up, but then came the quiet. The kids at school, the husband at work, and me going about my regular laundry-folding, letter-mailing, grocery-fetching business. After a morning of errands, three whole days after the words, I sat down at my favorite Thai restaurant and looked up to find grief in the no-longer-vacant seat across from me. Chest in my throat and face twisted, I asked for the check and ditched my uninvited date. I shook it off, drove to pick up a prescription, but replaced the part where I’m supposed give my child’s name and date of birth with a pitiful utterance followed by more tears. I managed to say I’d forgotten my wallet and drove off. Ditched him again. He continued to show up this way – in the least convenient locations – until I was reunited with my family. I know I won’t be free of him until I say my final goodbyes tomorrow, but in the meantime, for those of you who have been so thoughtful to ask, I’m doing fine.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Granddaddy, obviously. In trying to recall my favorite memories of him, I keep going back to the fellowship line. I honestly don’t even know if that’s what it was called, but for the purposes of this post, it’ll do. I grew up attending a tiny, Southern or Missionary Baptist church. My granddad (and later my dad) was a deacon there. Highly respected, highly revered, everybody loved Brother Culbertson. So every first Sunday or maybe every single Sunday, at the end of the service the congregation would form a line or a circle (memory) and one by one, we’d shake hands. While this was a tiny church, it still held a lot of hands. And for a kid who was both anxious and introverted, it was a nightmare. Clammy. Leathery. Bony. I’d describe each one in my head while trying to pretend I was happy to see its owner so no one could mistake my discomfort as “having an attitude”. There was always a point during Shakefest where I’d see that Granddaddy was coming up. Six more hands. Four more. ONE MORE. When I finally place my little hand in his big hand, I’d relax. He would flash the biggest smile, squeeze my hand tight and say something like “Well hello there, little lady” in that charming drawl of his. I looked forward to it every time.

I almost feel ridiculous for wanting him to still be here. He lived 90 good years. NINETY. And he never skipped a beat. I’ve lived almost 40 years with the love of a grandparent and I never had to see any of them suffer in pain. I recognize how fortunate I am to be able to say that, but they will all forever be missed. Tomorrow we say goodbye to a generation. Rest well, Granddaddy.