Thank you anyway

The scene:

Bus, groceries (two), talking to Laura, phone vibrates, I pick up.

Betty's whispering, quiet, and serious, and then: A-gong 走了 -- and I just said, "What." "Yeah, just an hour ago." "What." I called my mother right after Betty hung up, and I told her while she wailed and I cried. I wonder if my dad cried. It was probably 17:17.

Our relationship was tumultuous to say the least, and though he'd been sick for so long, the idea of death just didn't seem too near or possible. On one hand, I'm glad my grandmother's free from visiting him day after day after day, but at the same time, I just lost any chance I had of getting to know him not even as my grandfather, but as a person. I have vaults of questions and it's so overwhelming:

Why didn't you ever want to know me? Why didn't you ever love? What was your favorite color, and what smell made your mouth water? How old were you when you started drinking and who gave you your first cigarette? Did you name the pigs you owned, and did you have a secret hiding spot? Did you date? Did you have a favorite band? Have you ever picked a bouquet, and which one of the flowers in your garden was your favorite? Could you teach me Chinese calligraphy? Why didn't you ever hug me or stroke my hair?

Things I thought I forgot are rushing back, playing like quick slides in my mind. They look like broken film stills running through an old projector with a dusty lens. It's silent, it's disjointed. I'm so scared of forgetting his voice, the clacking of dentures, the phlegm-y cough, the rusty laugh.

I never thought I'd say this, but I miss you so much.