Dear "Grampy From Texas,"
You weren't a saint. You knew that. We knew that.
You walked out on my grandmother when my mother was five years old. You destroyed a woman who loved you so deeply that, even underneath all the hatred, you were still her passwords to everything. She loved you until the end.
But my mom, your daughter Jessica, let you in anyway. That was her grace, not yours. She opened the door for you to know your grandchildren, and you walked through it when you could. We loved when you visited. We took the moments of presence you gave us and held onto them.
Your father was my best friend. I visited him often as a kid. I'd play my saxophone and he'd play his harmonica, a harmonica I still have. I was with him in the days before he died. Something you were proud of. Something I will never forget.
I wear a tattoo of the pocket watch he gave me, an open watch with a black panther tribute to his military service, wrapped in roses. Every single day I carry your lineage on my skin. Your father's blood. Your blood. Our blood.
And after all of that, after the love, the complications, and the forgiveness my mother extended that most people would never have been capable of, I was erased from your story. Not by you. By them.
But they do not get to decide our legacy. This does.
Rest now, "Grampy From Texas."
— Jake Sadoway
