Friends

"We're not friends", he tells me. He adds that we won't be friends for a long time, maybe 10 years. I tell him I'll add that to my Google Calendar.

I got an email from my not-friend saying he was flying through O'Hare and I could stop by his gate to say hello, if I wanted.

Ever since the airborne toxic event that was our breakup, we don't have conversations. He emails me a news article about Taiwan. Weeks later, I'll send him a link to an odd invention that slices a hotdog to look like an octopus. He alerts me that the new Vampire Weekend album is on sale on Amazon. I send him a funny picture of Mayor Daley. Our emails are never in response. Always new, unrelated topics. Responses would make conversations. Conversations are dangerous. We are not friends.

I stop by to see him at his gate. The conversation is pleasant for a few minutes. Updates on life. I tell him about being accepted to the University of Chicago and completing my application for Columbia.
"How are you applying to such prestigious universities", he asks.
"You mean, why?", I ask, genuinely confused by the question.
"How or why; choose your interrogative. You went to Dalton State University for undergrad"
"Dalton State College", I correct.
"Exactly".

Snarky as hell. Not friends. I'm fine. I could be friends. But it takes two, right?

So why communicate at all? Because even though we may not be friends, he knows me well enough to send what were the most thoughtful words I received after Granddaddy's death.

Hey, Kevin. Liza just told me that Granddaddy passed away earlier this week. I sure am sorry about that. I hope that your family is able to spend lots of sweet time together remembering him this week. Your stories and anecdotes about him were always so fun, such a reminder of what home really is and why family is worth all the effort that is required. I'll be praying for you and all of your family - your mom especially, too - this week.

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James F. Daniel

My granddaddy died. Anytime I told someone this over the last couple of weeks, I found myself pausing, considering using "my grandfather", knowing how childish "granddaddy" sounds. But he wasn't my grandfather. To my mom, aunt, and uncle, he was Daddy. To his six grandkids, he was Granddaddy. To his one great-grandchild that just began talking, he was Gangay (though we were never sure if she knew the difference between Gangay and the La-Z-Boy recliner he was always sitting in until she correctly identified his body at the viewing).

I heard my cellphone ringing on Sunday morning. I was sleeping in a stranger's brand new apartment in Mexico City. I knew why my sister was calling. I had talked to her yesterday when they knew he was close to passing. I had just been home for Christmas ten days earlier. I got to spend several days with Granddaddy. As he had gotten sicker, he had switched from Fox News to the Western Channel, progress for progress. My relationship with my grandfather for the past 5 years has been sustained by arguing and trips to Cracker Barrel for lunch. For some reason the two never coincided. Our arguing took place in his living room sitting in adjacent recliners. Our time at Cracker Barrel was reserved for quieter conversation about family and work.

I arrived just a few days before Christmas and went to see him. I was worried about how different he would be from the last time I saw him four months ago. After sitting down for a few minutes he said, "Kevin, I believe this is the first time you've ever come back to visit with a decent shave". Compliments like this usually only came after long arguments about politics, when he felt like maybe he should lighten the mood.

I didn't answer my sister's call. I slept for another hour. I got up, told Miguel I needed to call home and left the room. My Dad told me that Granddaddy had said goodbye to everyone the previous night, and then died in his sleep that morning. I didn't feel left out of the goodbyes. I told him goodbye before I left for Mexico, and we both knew we wouldn't see one another again.

I went back to sleep for another hour, then spent the day changing my ticket, buying funeral clothes, and trying to enjoy my last day in Mexico City.

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