Grandpa Loyd

Two summers ago, I made the sporadic decision to drive across the country to visit you in Indiana. It feels like yesterday when I saw you sleeping on your favorite recliner. You had mustard stains on your shirt from the night before because we ate a dozen Power burgers and a John Wayne movie was playing quietly in the background. It was a cloudy day, and the air smelt like mowed grass and rain. I was scared to wake you up but you made me promise to do so before I snuck off to my next adventure. You woke up as I placed my hand on your left shoulder and pulled me in to give the best hug ever because we both knew that was the last. I cried the entire drive to Detroit knowing I would never see you again. I will forever cherish those memories and will remember how that trip was a huge turning point in my personal journey of the deepest depression I ever experienced. Visiting you and exploring the Midwest was one of the best decisions of my life. 

To be frank, we didn’t have much in common or maybe we did? It was difficult to converse since you couldn’t hear me. We really only communicated through writing letters and I always enjoyed reading your stories. My favorite story is how you met Granny on a Greyhound bus. You somehow convinced her to leave her boyfriend on the bus, move to Wisconsin with you and next thing you know my dad was the first born out of eight. I wish finding a connection with another person that easily was possible.

As the week went by during my visit, your silence gave me answers. Answers I can’t explain in words but brought me a good amount of relief from all my confusion that only I can understand. I love that you enjoyed my scalp massages, you liked the fact that I sing blues & soul and you were always happy to hear from me on your birthday and Christmas. Thank you for finally accepting my Japanese mother as family, I know it must have been hard with the circumstances of past wars. Thank you for accepting me as a granddaughter and not the status that society wants me to be. You respected my priorities and goals. And that means everything to me. I’ll be drinking an old fashion for you tonight, grandpa. I love you. 

RIP Gerald Loyd, 90

US Marine Corps Veteran