My Life in Bloopers

I'm sitting in my living room typing to the beat of Frank Sinatra. The TV occasionally gets a word in between songs and Sam, my wonderful, smart, young cousin sits on the couch texting her boyfriend. The only think that goes through my head other than song lyrics and mental images provided by Gage Matthews about certain people *cough* is the thought of a new year. This past year has been so... Eventful. Up and down just like every other year of my short life. But this past year was different for some reason. I didn't just gain worldly knowledge, but I gained a lot of information and knowledge and awareness of myself. Who I am and who I can become. I've been tested by teachers, and stretched by friends. I look back at the past year and can only think about two events. Well, three. One being Third Block. Two being my trip to Tampa (see the note “June 7. 9 P.M. Eastern Standard Time” for further information on that.) The third and most important thing I think about when I reflect back is losing the most amazing man I've ever known: Coach Ray Woodard. He was "Coach" to the world, but to me he was "G-dad." A grandfather loved by many. Every month on the sixteenth I think about what he has taught me over the years. It wasn't until we lost him that I finally realized what he meant. I think that is how most everybody is, though. I never realized that it was him who taught me patience. He taught me to listen. To hear. Oddly enough, he taught me the importance of words. And for a poet, that's a pretty big thing. I spent what felt like years of my life in a hospital room with him during his last months. Sat in a chair, afraid to even near him. I let my fear of hospitals stand in the way of me being able to tell him for one last time that I love him. I wanted everyday to just whisper in his ear and let him know how much he means to me. How I'll never forget him. How he'll live on forever through his sport and, hopefully, my words. I never got to thank him for the sixteen years of love and care. Everyday I wish I could go back in time and let him know. But I am glad I told him one thing:

"Be free."

A quote commonly used when we (Sam and I) would let go of his wheelchair when we would enter his living room. It was his freedom to freely go about his business without having to be pushed around by some girl. When he was struggling through his last days, at some point, I had the strength to stand next to him. I looked into his eyes (which is not common for me) and gave him the best hug I could as a goodbye and I whispered just loud enough for him to hear. "Be free, Grandad, be free." It was the hardest sentence I've ever had to form. And it's the hardest sentence I've ever had to type.

I still don't think this note has actually voiced what I've actually wanted to say. If it has, then I'd be surprised.

So, here's to a new year. A strong year. A year where I will say what I want to say to the person I want to say it to no matter what kind of bed they are in. Water or hospital. (Pardon that... Best joke I could think of to lighten the mood)