treatswords

Black hair, round glasses, balloon shaped stomach that I used to sit on. This was the man I knew to be my grandpa. And that he was. He raised my mother like she was his own, he loved my sister and I like we came from the same pool of blood. I never knew he was not my DNA.

Then one day I learned that in fact this man was not my blood related grandpa, but that he had actually passed away when my mother was about three years old.

A drinking and driving accident.

And that was all I knew about the man.

I learned his name a few years ago.

My mom and I had been laying in bed, her nose was distinct, it was round and turned up slightly, we shared the same feature.

“Did you get your nose from grandma?” I pried.

“No, we have your grandpas nose.”

“I don’t even know the mans name.” I said, rubbing her flannel sheet in-between my finger tips.

“Duane.”

Duane. The man I never knew, the man that seemed to be tucked away in boxes filled with old memories, black and white photos with women in dresses standing next to old cars.

The man I shared a nose with.

I learned that we also shared our height, my short frame barely creeping past five-foot-two.

My grandma stood tall, short light hair tucked behind her ears.

She is tall and I am short.

Thanks Duane.

I understood that he was not someone my grandma particularly liked to discuss. His name like a scar that had healed years ago, she saw no point in cutting into it again.

I understood that Duane had left bruises on her.

I understood that he liked to drink. Another thing I got from him.

He was sick, he had a disease and it’s name was alcoholism.

He had one too many, decided to drive and that was the end of his life.

It is a strange feeling to resemble someone I know nothing about.

He is a shadow I feel looming behind me, even when the sun is not around.

We may share a nose, but I don’t feel we share the kindness I was taught from my mother.

She raised me to always be kinder than necessary. She taught me that with kindness, came advantage.

“People will take advantage of your kindness and that is ok. That is not a reflection of you, it is a reflection of something they dislike within themselves. Continue being kind.”

I may never know more about Duane than the few small details I am sharing now.

And that is ok.

I have a man who fought in the war, taught me how to fold a blanket like a flag, played barbies with me until his hand became sore and loved me before I was even born.

He raised a family he didn’t have to, because he was a good man.

That is someone I want to resemble. And since I can’t make my nose look like his, I will strive to resemble him in the ways that matter.

I will strive to be courageous like him, honest like him, loving like him.

I will strive to learn how to love someone like they are family, even when I do not have to.