I wish I'd said goodbye

It's been five years. Five years since he left. Five years since… since the phone call. I still see his face, clear as day, laughing that stupid laugh he had when he was really trying to be funny. He wasn't always funny, but God, he tried.

My grandpa, we called him Pops, he was… everything. He raised me after my mom, well, she wasn't around much. He taught me how to fish, how to change a tire, how to tell a good story. He was always there. Always.

I was 22 when he got sick. Lung cancer. He’d smoked his whole life, even though Grandma bitched about it constantly. I guess she was right. Chemo, radiation, the whole nine yards. He fought it, hard. For a while, it looked like he might actually win. But then… it came back. Worse this time.

He was in the hospital the last two weeks. I visited every day after work. Sat with him, held his hand, watched stupid daytime TV with him. He’d tell the same stories over and over, about the war, about Grandma when they were young, about me learning to ride my bike. I didn't mind. I loved those stories. I knew deep down, even then, that I wouldn't hear them again for much longer.

The day he died, I couldn’t go. I had a stupid meeting at work, some presentation I had to give. My boss was on my ass about it for weeks. I told myself, 'He’s stable, I’ll see him tomorrow.' I even remember promising him I'd bring him his favorite cookies the next day, those peanut butter ones from the bakery down the street.

Then the phone rang. It was my aunt. He was gone. Just like that.

I rushed to the hospital, but it was too late. He was already… gone. I stood there, staring at him, wishing I could rewind time. Wishing I’d skipped the stupid meeting. Wishing I’d held his hand one last time. Wishing I’d told him… I don’t know… just… something.

But I didn't. All I did was chase some stupid career goal. And now… now I have this hole in my chest that won’t ever heal. A hole shaped like Pops.

I never got to say goodbye. I never got to tell him how much he meant to me. How much I loved him. How grateful I was for everything he’d done.

I’m doing okay now, I guess. I have a good job, a nice apartment. But sometimes, late at night, when everything is quiet, I still hear his laugh. And I wish, more than anything, that I could go back and just… say goodbye. Tell him thank you. Tell him I loved him. Just one last time.

I hope he knew. I really do. I hope he knew how much he mattered. Even if I didn’t say it out loud enough. I hope he knew.