The Last Thing They Said to Me

I’ve replayed that afternoon more times than I can count—like a tape that refuses to wear out, no matter how many times I rewind and press play.

It was the last time I saw Grandpa.

The day was ordinary in every way that shouldn't have mattered. A slow-moving Tuesday in April. The sun was too bright for his tired eyes, and the tulips in Mom’s front yard had just started to open. I’d stopped by after class, like I always did on Tuesdays. I brought him the crossword from the paper, a black coffee from the diner down the street, and that bag of Werther’s he always pretended to hate.

“You trying to rot my teeth out before I die?” he said, grinning like a kid. That was the last thing he said to me.

I laughed. Rolled my eyes. Called him dramatic. I think I said, “You're not dying, you're just cranky.” And then I told him I'd see him next week.

I didn’t.

He died that Friday. Peacefully, they said. In his sleep. Heart failure, the doctor mumbled over the phone like it was a side note on someone else's report.

I didn’t cry right away. I didn’t even fully believe it. I kept thinking: No, no—he didn’t look like someone ready to go. He had color in his face. He joked with me. He ate two slices of pound cake and beat me at cards.

But grief doesn’t ask for your permission. It just shows up. Sometimes in sobs. Sometimes in silence. For me, it came in flashbacks and “what ifs.”

What if I had stayed longer?

What if I had known it was goodbye?

What if I'd said something... more?

I kept thinking back to the moment I left. He’d been sitting in his recliner, faded wool blanket over his knees, the crossword balanced on his bony legs. He held up the pen in a little wave as I walked out.

“Thanks for the sugar,” he said with a wink.

That was it.

No dramatic goodbye. No final confession or sage advice. No “I love you” or “take care of your mother.” Just a sarcastic jab and a playful smile. Just... Grandpa.

But now, every time I open that memory, I feel the hollowness of all the things left unsaid between us. I never told him how much those Tuesday visits meant to me. I never told him I kept a box of every letter he ever wrote me, even the one he mailed from Cleveland just to complain about the food at his hotel. I never told him I looked up to him more than any other man in my life.

I never told him thank you.

And now I can't.

In the days after the funeral, people said the things people always say. “He knew you loved him.” “He wouldn’t want you to feel guilty.” “He lived a good life.”

All true. All meaningless.

What I wanted was another Tuesday. One more hour. Five more minutes. Hell, even a proper goodbye.

What I got was the echo of a joke about candy and death.

But as time passed—slow and jagged—I started to realize something. Grandpa wouldn’t have wanted a teary farewell. He wouldn’t have wanted long speeches and cinematic exits. He was a man of small moments. Crossword puzzles. Coffee. Eye-rolls. Quiet company.

That last thing he said to me? That was him, loving me in the way he always had—by making me laugh. By being himself, even at the edge of the unknown.

One night, months later, I found a folded note in one of his crossword books. It was barely a few lines, written in his scratchy, left-slanting hand:

“Don’t fuss. We all leave eventually. If you’re reading this, I probably beat you at poker one last time. Be good to your mother. And keep showing up.”

—G.

I sat there for a long time, staring at it.

Keep showing up.

Maybe that was the goodbye. Maybe he had known. Maybe he didn’t need to say anything more that Tuesday because he’d already said everything he needed to across the years.

Now, every Tuesday, I still walk to that diner. I order two black coffees. I leave one on the empty seat across from me. Sometimes, I do the crossword. Sometimes, I talk to him like he's there.

Maybe that seems crazy.

But maybe it’s just me… showing up.

Like he asked.