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While I like to consider myself a writer, I’m not the “pump out 2,000 words a day, get published” kind of writer. I would say I’m more of the “overwhelmed by emotion, got to get it out” kind of writer. Today happens to be one of those overwhelmingly emotional days.

Today, my grandfather would have been 86 years old had he not passed in December of 2014. Any time I try to write about him, I fumble over words and get frustrated at the fact that the paragraph I wrote doesn’t do the 16 years I spent with him justice. The paragraph can’t temporarily bring him back to life like I imagined it would in my head. The paragraph will mean nothing to my instagram followers who will see it beneath a picture of him holding me as a baby. They might like the picture because I was a cute baby but keep scrolling because they just don’t have time to read the irrelevant text. So, I will close out of it, save the picture and long paragraph in my drafts, and sit and cry because I once again realize he is not here and I can’t write him back in for the day.

I sit in my living room quietly celebrating his life and what it was.

Unfortunately, I can not write him back to life. It’s a hard reality I’ve come to. I can spend hours trying but I will come up short every time. If you didn’t know my grandfather, my words will simply never paint the picture I need you to see. So, I’ll sit alone. Through tears, laughter, texts in my family group chat, and probably a phone call to my mom, I’ll celebrate the life of one of the most amazing men I’ve ever known.

The silence will have to be enough because nothing else ever will be.