A piece of my heart broke.
I love stories. I love learning and information and knowledge. But above all, I love stories. I have always looked up to my Pa Pou (Greek for grandfather). He has such character. He is strong and idealistic and possesses such depth. There is a depth there I can never hope to know. He has such stories within him. He has lived an incredible life full of hardships and happiness and travels and tribulations and wonder.
I’ve caught glimpses and morsels of the story of his life through my conversations with him. I’ve wanted to be able to write his memoirs or even just to jot down all of his stories. He has experienced so much where I have seen so very little of this complicated world. I regret spending so little time with him. Distance is a difficult barrier to battle. A part of me wishes I could drop my life as it is to spend time with him. To learn of his stories and scoop them up before it is too late. To learn the depths of who he truly is. He’s my hero. He always has been. My mother went to visit him. She wanted to record some of the stories of his life. He refused.
Several years ago I talked with him for several hours learning of his life. It was for a school project, but I loved every minute of it. I have never wanted to do a project so much in my life. But even then I only got a taste, a sample of what this man has done and experienced. When I talked to my mom about her visit, a part of me froze and whimpered, choking at the news. He wouldn’t tell them. Wouldn’t let these stories be recorded. She told me I might have better luck if I went there myself. That he might open up for me. But the distance keeps us apart. I’m not there. And I find myself buried in work and school and such. My heart cries out to reach out and do this thing. This project I have put off and put off seeking a better time to do it, when I would be less busy. I’ve finally realized life will not slow down. But I can. Or…maybe speed up…my metaphors are getting soggy now. As a weaver of tales I have always been fascinated by my Pa Pou, his tales and his story. He is an extraordinary man. I look up to him. In some respects I would even venture to say I idolize him. And as time passes and he grows older and I grow busier I fear I may never get the chance to spend the time I need to with him. To connect with him, his stories, and my heritage. Each time I feel a piece of me crying out, breaking, falling away. And yet, I do nothing to change things.
I can’t go on doing this. I need to find the time.