The Conversation I Wish I Had Before They Were Gone

The Conversation I Wish I Had Before They Were Gone

Dear Dada (Grandfather),

You used to sit by the window every morning, your tea steaming gently beside you, watching the world go by with quiet reverence. I used to wonder what you were thinking. Sometimes I imagined you were reliving old memories; other times, I assumed you were simply waiting for time to pass.

Now, I wish I had asked.

There are so many things I never said. So many questions I never asked. So many stories you never got to finish because I was too distracted, too busy, too young to realize you wouldn’t always be there.

I keep thinking about that last day I saw you—how I rushed out of the room, muttering, “I’ll be back later,” when you tried to say something. I don’t even remember what it was. Maybe it was important. Maybe it was one last attempt to connect. I’ll never know.

That’s the cruel thing about grief—it always leaves behind echoes. Shadows of what could’ve been. Conversations frozen at the edge of possibility.

If I could go back and sit beside you again, just once, this is the conversation I wish we’d had.

I would ask you about your childhood—not just the facts, but how it felt. What did the sky look like in your village when you were ten? Who was your first best friend? What did your mother cook on days of celebration?

I would ask you what it was like to grow up before phones, before the noise. Was it lonely, or was it beautiful?

I’d want to know about your fears. You were always so strong in front of us, a wall of quiet wisdom. But were you ever scared? Of being a father? Of not being enough?

I’d ask you about love—what you learned about it from Dadi (Grandmother), and what you lost when she passed. You never spoke of it, but I saw the change in you after she was gone. I would tell you it’s okay to cry. I wish I had.

I would ask you what you dreamed of. Did you ever want to leave the country? Be a writer? A teacher? A singer? You always encouraged my dreams, but I never thought to ask if someone once silenced yours.

And then—when the tea had gone cold and the sun had started to set—I’d ask you the hardest thing:

Were you proud of me?

Not because I needed validation, but because I needed to hear it from you—the man who taught me discipline without words, the one whose approval was never loud but always present in his eyes.

Now, your chair by the window sits empty. Your slippers still tucked neatly beside it. The tea stains on your favorite cup haven’t faded, no matter how many times I wash it. You’re everywhere and nowhere all at once.

People tell me that grief fades. Maybe that’s true. But what they don’t say is that it reshapes you. It makes you more tender in some places, more closed in others. It teaches you to listen harder, love slower, and speak sooner.

If I’ve learned anything from your absence, it’s this:

We must say the important things while we still have time.

I should have asked more questions. I should have held your hand longer. I should have turned off my phone and turned my full attention to you. You were a library that no one finished reading.

Sometimes, I write letters to you like this. I leave them on your chair or fold them into books you used to read. I don’t know if they reach you, but they help me feel close.

I want you to know that I still remember your stories, even if you only told them halfway. I remember the softness in your eyes when you looked at your grandchildren. I remember how you peeled oranges for us even when your fingers ached from arthritis. I remember the sound of your laughter—deep, rare, and always worth the wait.

I carry you with me in ways I never expected.

In the way I write. In the way I listen to old music. In the way I leave room for silence, because I now understand how sacred it can be.

This is the conversation I wish I had before you were gone.

But maybe it’s not too late. Maybe, somehow, you hear me now.

And if you do, I just want you to know one thing:

I miss you. I’m sorry. And I love you.

Always.

—

Your grandchild