Day One hundred and two - The only moment we were alone

You know, yesterday's post didn't really come out the way I intended to originally. I'd been thinking about what I was going to write for a few hours, and when I sat down to write I just couldn't focus. I was all over the place. Maybe it was because of the events I wrote about, certainly the artist's recentt passing has been weighing heavy on my mind. It's really left me out of sorts these past few weeks. All this has left me thinking about my mortality - and I've stopped being afraid of dying a long time ago. I've begun to fear dying a stupid death, like being run over by a car when I didn't look the other way, or walking down the street and being hit by a falling piano or a safe or whatever. But when I think about death, I also think about how I've never really known someone who's died, other than my grandfather. At least not to my knowledge, that is. I mean, over a decade ago I worked at a place for a couple of years and some years after I left I learned that one of the managers there had died. So that sort of makes up the total number of people who I've known and have passed away. And again, this makes me think about my own father. I don't even know whether or not he's still alive, and I'm not normally inclined or otherwise moved to ask my sister about it. But now i do find myself wondering if I shouldn't do something about. Ask. Maybe visit him. Would that give him some sort of peace of mind, before his days are up? Does he even deserve such from me? I really don't know. The last thing I want my father to be for me is a cause of regret. And I also think of my granmdfather - I've written before how he was already positively ancient when I was small, and of course when you're of that age there's a lot of things you don't care about... lots of things you don't even think about. And for many years now I feel like I should have gotten to know my grandfather better - my grandmother always told me how alike we were, both physically and in terms of certain specific things that happened in both our lives. I know that I inherited from him my love for my football club, and one of my dearest memories from my early life is when I got my very first comic book - a book featuring the Incredible Hulk - and he was there, along with my grandmother, in a tiny, tiny shopping center that I doubt exists still. But mostly all I remember is being quite afraid of him - what with him being old, and barely being able to move, he had no patience for children whatsoever, and I always felt like when he spoke to me, he was yelling rather than talking to me. But could I have made an effort to try and understand him? To try and learn from him? I didn't know any better then. I wish I did.