Boy, This Is Hard
I never met my grandfather—he was the perfect relative. My middle name is his name. I have his wristwatch and his hammer. I am told stories here and there at family gatherings and see the odd photo. I see his impact on others in my orbit, like my father, who lost him when he was barely 17 years old.
I cannot fathom that void. And I cannot stop thinking about this as I grow older and now have 3 sons of my own. (At the time of this writing, they are 9, 5, and 2 years old.)
So I want to do something about it. I am not sure exactly what.
What comes next might be a collection of essays I add to periodically. It might peter out like so many other projects tend to do. It is going to feel like self-aggrandizement—I know myself enough to worry about worrying about that. But screw it, I am going to try anyway. I want to write things down in my voice, with my tone, and start piecing together a long-form love letter to those who have impacted me and that I impact.
And I am going to call it "boy, this is hard." The name feels apt, is punny enough for my sensibilities, and a good reminder to me and future readers not to take oneself too seriously.