lost my favorite person in the world ten years ago yesterday. some friends who've read Buried Things thought this was a portrait of the mc, and that's bc the mc looks more or less like my grandpa.
(Edna looks more or less like my nana.)
I wish he could've seen me publish a book. I wish I could remember the last time I saw him that wasn't in the hospital.
my grandpa was a writer. my grandpa was a magician. my grandpa took over his dad's machine shop even though he didn't particularly want to, and his office always looked like a tornado had swept through. he always had a handkerchief. he had antique piggy banks and model farm equipment everywhere. he kept his long-dead brother's little sculptures in a display case up in the shop file room. mom always said he'd forgotten more than the rest of us would probably ever know. he once made a wooden case for me just because at the age of eleven I drew shitty blueprints for one. he collected national geographics. he had ketchup with everyone. he ate fresh tomatoes by the slice, each one sprinkled with salt. he liked cranberry sauce out of a can. he always wore plaid shirts and mickey mouse ties.