The Letter That Was Never Sent

It was a long time ago. Longer than bears even mentioning, really. Given the events of my day today I feel the need to get it off my chest regardless. I suppose I should start at the beginning. It's been 18 years since my grandfather died. I was five and he was my world. Being five years old, the grieving process was already difficult, if not impossible, to sort itself out in my small mind. Out of good intentions my grandmother (Pap's wife) decided to step in and take my grieving into her own hands. I started receiving letters and gifts left outside the front door from "Pap". It threw my world absolutely upside down. I wrote back, of course, and I always got a response. My mother didn't find out about it until it was too late to stop it. I was over the moon that he was writing to me, that he still loved me and thought about me. This went on for a couple of years. As I grew older, I knew in the back of my mind that something was not right. There was a reason I wouldn't excitedly tell my best friend that I was receiving contact from the one person who meant everything to me. I knew it was a fraud. I just hoped and believed that everything would turn out okay. That, somehow, it really was my Pap-Pap. I finally cornered my mother and demanded that she tell me the truth about the letters, the truth that I already knew. I still have a lot of respect for her that she had the guts to give her seven year old a straight, unflinching answer. Even as I heard the truth that I didn't want to hear, I told her she was wrong. That he was there. He was writing to me and that he did still love me. I told her that I was going to prove it by leaving a letter for him outside that night before I went to sleep and if it was gone in the morning, that would show her. It must have eaten her to pieces to not take that letter, knowing what would happen if she didn't. I probably respect her for her restraint more than anything else. It was something I needed to see for myself and she knew that. Needless to say, I woke up in the morning and ran outside and that letter was sitting right where I left it. Some part of me knew it would be there, but another part of me was actually praying my mother would keep up the charade. I didn't want to face it. When I saw that letter sitting there, my heart broke into more pieces than I could possibly put back together. It hurt more than his death itself. My belief system broke that day. I vowed that I would never again believe in something that I couldn't see, couldn't talk to - because it wasn't there. It's fair to say that incident played a large part in my view of religion today. I refuse to believe in anything, because to my knowledge, there is nothing there. If I can talk to God (and boy, would I like to have a chat with that guy), then I will believe he is there. My world has subsequently become black and white and I'm not entirely sure there's a way to fix that. 

I visited his grave today for the first time since he died. I'm not sure what I was expecting. I just knew it was something I was avoiding. Maybe visiting him would give me closure - tie it all up neatly with a bow and send it on its way out of my head. Boy was I wrong. When I saw my name on his grave stone, it hit me hard. "Kellye's Beloved Pap-Pap". I will be tied to that man forever no matter how far I try to run from it. It's always said that when someone you love deeply dies, a piece of you goes with them. When I saw my name there, I felt like the childhood I lost because of the subsequent events was inside his coffin, locked in there to rot forever. Something I can't get back. Now the small child that I've beaten down for all these years has come back to haunt me. I feel every bit of pain, loneliness, sorrow, abandonment... I feel everything. I shouldn't. It's been too long for this. As sad as it makes me, I've got to find a way to beat her back down. She died with him and I think at this point in my life it's best I leave her there, where she's happy. She was only ever happy with him, after all.