The One Call I Never Returned

It was my college graduation and one of the many falling outs I had with my grandfather turned out to be the last. He died five years later in 2017. Poof. He was gone. Five years in silence lead to forever.

It was so long ago I’m not entirely sure why I felt betrayed and unforgiving. The contempt and disappointment I felt when finding out he couldn’t make it out to my graduation because of the lengthy car ride was strong in that moment. To me, it was another excuse made that was folded on top of several others over the years.

In that moment, I thought “distance never stopped him from going to the racetrack.” There had to have been a deeper reason, don’t you think? One that I was never made aware of.

The saying goes something like this: you don’t realize how much you miss someone or something until it’s gone. For some, when talking about a person, that statement mostly applies to a deceased family member, close friend who died tragically or from sickness or even a pet. If you’ve experienced this scenario, like I have, it also applies to the living. In all my many years of experience dealing with people, once someone is gone, they’re gone. Alive or dead. No phone calls, voicemail messages, cards, emails, letters. Nothing. They vanish. Poof.

Sometime after my graduation, I got a phone call. It was a kind gesture and at the time I didn’t see it at face value. My grandfather’s partner left me a voicemail inviting Mike, my husband, and I to dinner at their house in Brooklyn — the home I spent most of my childhood in — to celebrate. I wish I kept her message. It was a call I regrettably never returned.

I didn’t return that call for selfish reasons. I also never called my grandfather after that moment, also, for selfish reasons. I know that now. Yet, the reality was we both acted like children. We played chicken with apologies, feelings and with a bond between us that was once in breakable. It’s still unclear to me who was victorious. We reached a stalemate, I suppose.

When I got married in 2016, I invited him to my wedding hoping that was a strong enough olive branch to patch things up. The invitation wasn’t well received, I guess. No response and no surprise a no-show. I should’ve called.

From the moment I refused to return that phone call and except that invitation was the moment I felt my grandfather was physically out of my life for good. It might sound pathetic and sad, but it’s mostly true.

I spent most of my summers as a kid with him in his garage, in the basement working on the motorcycles or at Floyd Bennett Field riding the Cherry-red mini bike that we built together. We would take trips to pick up car or motorcycle parts from his buddies in Long Island or we would go to the market and pick up pinwheel steaks to cook on the charcoal grill.

He is the reason I adore dipping buttered white toast in coffee, making — and also consuming — the perfect sunny-side egg, and my overall love for breakfast food. Because of him, I probably know more about pigeons than the average person. And every time I hear a “hog” engine (my Harley lovers know what I’m talking about), I close my eyes, take a deep breath and smile. He is the reason I love cars, motorcycles, and when I’m feeling nostalgic 50s/60s music.

I have a lot of memories to be thankful for. Even after all of these years, I wish I returned that call.