This week has been hard. My grandfather, who has been in and out of the hospital since my grandmother died in March, passed away this week. For most of my life he lived in Denver, so I didn't get to see him a lot. But that made phone calls and visits more special. We bonded over our love of old movies and we'd frequently try to out trivia each other. He loved Humphrey Bogart, Marilyn Monroe, Ingrid Bergman, and James Cagney. As a child, I thought he looked like Rex Harrison (of "My Fair Lady" and "Dr. Doolittle" fame) and so I'd watch "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir" on repeat. (It helped that the Ghost/Rex Harrison recites his life story to Mrs. Muir, who writes it down and gets his story published so she can afford to live in his house - so the author-theme was also important to me.)

This week has been a flood of memories and nostalgia. Sometimes I'll be talking and realize what I'm saying is a Papa-ism, a thing he would say and I've learned from him. ("Lord love a duck" or "I've gotta brush a tooth" or "I'm going to Lily White's party" (for going to bed). Or he'd say "I've got to check with the War Department," meaning he had to confer with my grandmother.) He could recite the Robert Service poem, The Cremation of Sam McGee from memory and often cited it.

It's been a challenge to write this week, especially since the novel I'm working on has a lot to do with grief and memory and family. I'm sure someday I'll be able to channel these raw feelings into my work, but right now, I'm skirting the edges, picking scenes that are 'safe' rather than picking the scabs that have barely had time to heal over.