Dear Wigleaf,

My grandpa Jack once came on a nature trip with my fifth-grade class. He watched me dissect owl pellets and took pictures of chickadees landing on my head. I was probably preoccupied by ding-dong-ditching the boys across the hall, too busy being a middle-schooler to notice how nice it was to have a family member there, guiding me on the night hike, catching me after the ropes course.

I'm thinking of this because my grandfather passed away recently, and somewhat suddenly. Sorry, Wigleaf, I know death is a downer. This is the first time someone significant in my life has died, and it's strange. I don't know what to do, a theme since my grad program ended and I don't know what's next. I've been filling my time with projects, but every so often I catch myself and wonder what I'm really doing.

One thing I've been thinking about, re. Grandpa Jack, is my middle school best friend, the one knocking on boys' doors next to me. The first time I slept at her house, she showed me a notebook where she wrote letters to her dead mother. I thought that was so beautiful, getting to write things you never got a chance to say. If I had a notebook to my grandfather, I'd mostly say thank you—for being my grandpa. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

All my love,
Lizzie