I hate obituaries.

They’re too bare-bones, too direct, too painful to read when you stumble upon them at three in the morning when your insomnia forces you to clean your closet out instead of sleep - which, in fact, was what happened to me last Thursday morning. I was in my walk-in, sitting cross legged on the soft, white carpets, looking through silly old photographs when there it was, staring at me in black and white.

I cried, and cried, and cried.

We grow up believing our fathers and grandfathers are superheroes, that they will live forever and protect us from all the evils in the world. Like Clark Kent, they will kick Lex Luther’s ass, God dammit, and they will enjoy it, too. My grandfather could have, I always knew that. Hell, my Grandfather would have parted the Red Sea, swam through the lava of Mordor, and rescued Pam Anderson from a giant Great White Shark, and would not even break a sweat.

Well, at one time he could have. Three years ago, my Grandfather was suffering from emphysema and dying of kidney failure in a shitty retirement home that my stupid fucking uncle stuck him in. My stupid fucking uncle who denied my dying grandfather his favorite things: Baywatch, Diet Pepsi, and Polish cuisine. I hate my stupid fucking uncle for denying my grandfather some of his final requests, but I hate obituaries more.

They don’t say the things that they should. They don’t immortalize the person, don’t really let the public know what they were like. For instance, my grandfather’s obituary tells us that his parents were dead before him and that he was survived by three children, his ex-wife, and three grandchildren. What that doesn’t tell you is the relationships he had with us, with me. It doesn’t tell you that my grandfather taught me how to ride a bike because my father was in jail. It doesn’t tell you that my Grandfather used to draw me pictures of Donald Duck when I was a kid to make me smile.

The twenty-line paragraph doesn’t tell you that my grandpa made fried cabbage that tastes better than any one elses’ around. It doesn’t tell you that he called me koqut, and that he only nicknamed people he really liked. It doesn’t tell you that my grandfather was one of the happiest people I have ever known, and that he also suffered from bi-polar disorder. It doesn’t tell you that his kids are really nothing like him. It doesn’t tell you the effect he had on our lives, on our careers, on our hopes and dreams. It doesn’t tell you that it hurt like hell when he died.

And it sure as shit doesn’t tell you that he was a good man. It doesn’t tell you that he tried to protect me from emotional abuse. It doesn’t tell you that he called his youngest child guvno - the Polish word for shit. It doesn’t tell you that he was fluent in Polish, or that he took me onto the kiddie rides while my mother and grandmother went on the big rollercoasters at Cedar Point. It doesn’t tell you that he inspired me, that he kept me going when nothing else could. The obituary tells you nothing more than an arbitrary list of facts that makes a life seem so simple and ineffectual.

And personally, I believe every life has a ripple effect. My Grandfather inspired me, has given me memories which I use to write with, loved me like no one else could ever possibly fucking love me. In turn, I will write stories with him in them, and someone will read them and, hopefully if I am as good a writer as I one day hope to be, will be inspired or effected too. And so it will go on.

I hate obituaries, because they reduce those we love into nothing more than a hundred words, to nothing more than blood-ties and birthdates and the service you may or may not have served in the military. I hate obituaries because they can’t help us to remember the truly important things about our fathers, and brothers, and uncles, and grandfathers.