Gone

Now that my grandparents are gone, existing only in what memories I happen to have of them, Autumn Drive just another average house in a middle class neighborhood on the west side of some forgettable Connecticut suburb, I'm forced to think back. Was there something special about it? All the summer days, all the time I spent there? What was it all worth it, my time with Primo and Josephine Pauletti?

Even when I was young, I thought about the day I would no longer have grandparents. Knowing that someday, far in the clouded future, that it was inevitable. I looked upon it with only a light stress, knowing it would be a salient mark to the end of a chapter of my life. Now that the page has turned, the chapter over, I don't feel any different than I did before they were gone. I wasn't swept up, transformed by some monumental internal change. If anything occurred within me, it happened with the subtlety of a ball of snow rolling down a mountain with the potential to start an avalanche.

And still I feel nothing significant. The only difference is realizing Pop Pop and Grandma are not there, not at Autumn drive, not anywhere. I'm reminded every time I watch the Discovery Channel or see games of bingo and I, for a split second, want to make a call or pay a visit. But there would be nowhere for that call to go, no one in the house to visit.