Hey Papa, it's me. It's been a while. I get it. I don't remember your voice anymore. I forgot Nanny's a long time ago, but I kinda hoped I'd be able to hang on to yours. You turned 79 yesterday. We had chocolate cake from Haggen, the kind you like. I couldn't eat any. But it had a snowman on it. You would've liked it.
I'm almost 17 now. There's a lot of things I wish I could say to you. A lot of things I wish you could say to me. I only knew you for 10 years. I'm jealous that Kellie knew you for 16. She got more time with you, more trips to Long Beach with you than I ever did. She got more time with Nanny too. Much more time. I only got 6 years with her. When I think about it, she was almost a stranger. I don't even remember her accent. I didn't even know she had one. Dads impersonations in stories aren't enough for me. His impersonations of you aren't either. They make me laugh but I hate laughing at people I don't really know.
If I really didn't know you it might make it easier on me. You'd really be a stranger. But you weren't. I hugged you and spent time at your house. I remember your cats and your TV and your pile of firewood. I remember our dish of York Peppermint Patties. I remember the piles of leaves in your yard that Kellie and I would jump in and I remember your tiny lake. I remember our treehouse. It was really Kellie's treehouse. But I liked to think I'd get my own one day. I didn't.

You wore think glasses and you never took off your hat. You smoked for 60 years and my Dad was your only child. You had 4 step sons that you raised but I don't know them all. I never met Michael. Did Nanny cry when Michael was born that way? Did she blame herself? Or the nuns at the hospital who crossed her legs until the doctor got there? Could she feel Michael struggling for air? He died at 38. He really is a stranger. Uncle Al lives in Maine, I haven't seen him since you left us. Uncle John used to live in Marysville but he and Aunt Pamm live in California now. He's only my second favorite uncle because he's really the only other one I knew. He's in remission from lung cancer. He still smokes. I'm not sure what he's trying to get rid of by doing it but it's not cancer. Aunt Pamm is a Buhddist I think. I don't really know either of them.
Uncle Brian and Aunt Terri came to visit on Tuesday. After a couple cigarettes Dad and Brian started talking, like always. They sat there and shared memories as if it was just them in the room. We all watched like they were on TV. They talked about you and Nanny. I laughed and remembered little about you and even less about her.

Kellies married now. His name is Tim. You'd have really liked him. He's tough and funny and kind. He hikes and knows how to weld and forge and build things. I was always jealous of her, you know. She had the boys, and the height, and the talent. She's a better artist and a better singer. She learned more from you than I ever could. She always wanted to. I wanted to play with my toys and watch TV while you taught her how to split a log and identify plants and grow carrots and use a machete. I hate myself for that. I'm the indoor cat that gets fat and drains your bank account at the vet, Kellie was the outdoor cat that brought you rats and squirrels and knew how to hunt. I know you loved both of us, but I wish I would've been there with you like she was.

I wish I hadn't ever seen you cough of blood at the dinner table. I wish you'd lived longer, to see me in my formative years, to tell me all the stories Dad tries to. I wish you could've told me what you thought about Nanny getting baptized on her hospital bed weeks before she left. I wonder if that had any affect on you before you left. I wish I'd known if you missed her. I know you did, I would've liked to hear you tell me.
I wish you could've met Ryan. You'd like him too. He's funny and sweet and lovely, he's witty enough to keep up with you. And he loves me. I wish you could see it.

I know you loved me, no matter what kind of cat I was. I know life was always hard for you. I know your sons gave you hell and I know you lost your brother and I know you had it rough and I know you watched your dreams get crushed over and over but you were, for the time I knew you, an amazing grandfather. My first thought of you is always a hazy ghost at the edge of my life but that's not true. You were always there for me. I would sit on your lap every Christmas while you read me The Night Before Christmas. You gave me presents, good ones, meaningful ones. You built me a dollhouse. You slipped the Sunday comic strips from your newspaper into my cubby at Sunday School every single week. Somehow. You made Kellie and I a treehouse and a little boat and a little plane. That plane is in my room now. You came over for dinner every week after Nanny died and you ate with us and laughed and hugged me goodbye. The week you died, maybe even the day before, Dad led me down the hallway to your room, to say goodbye. You were weeping like a child and you hugged me so tight and told me you loved me. Your hands were thick and calloused and heavy. The wedding ring that was on your finger, and the one that was on Nannys are both with me now. I take them out sometimes and hold them. I can't tell if the smell of cigarette smoke on them is real or just a fading memory.

You were a blessing on my life, in the way I must have seemed a blessing to yours. I know you and Nanny are together again, I simply do. I know I will see you again, Tom Hazen. And when Dad tells the story about your Jedi powers, or the stort about Nannys time as a cocktail waitress, I'll laugh and I won't feel like I'm laughing at strangers. I love you too.