My grandfather died when I was thirteen and no longer spending summer weeks in the country. I've forgotten what excuse I used to get out of going, probably the one about my period and cramps.
My mother sobbed at the funeral. It made me wonder if she didn't know of the slow summer nights in my bedroom. What we'd done and what kind of man he was. Maybe she did understand and loved him more than she ever had loved my father. I know she didn't cry that much at his funeral.
Something of me is gone with the loss of the men in my life. I wonder if I still exist as pieces of me drop away and are buried.