Essay: Missing Someone I’ve Never Met

I’ve always had one physical grandfather, and another I’ve pieced together through photos, videos and stories. 

My dad’s father died when I was just two months old, and I was never able to meet him except for on a video call I obviously don’t remember. 

It would be unfair to say I missed out on the grandparent experience. My mom’s parents have always been a constant — living such a short drive away, they’ve been present at practically every event in my life.

They were at the hospital when I was born, drove me to school when my mom went back to work and even bought a dog when my parents refused to buy me my own. They exceeded their roles as grandparents and continue to do so today. 

Even having such a supportive family, I still find myself wishing I could’ve known my dad’s father. My valuable relationship to my dad and what I’ve heard about their closeness to each other makes me sure I would’ve adored him. 

I know I have his hair. I know I was born with his eyes. But I don’t know him — and I never will. 

Even so, I often miss him. 

I’ve heard stories about him my entire life. Years ago, I began writing a list of everything I’d learned — every time someone mentioned a piece of who he was, I jotted it down before I could forget. 

The list is mostly frivolous qualities — that he was allergic to peanuts or that he loved the word “marvelous” — but every item I add makes me feel a little closer to him, like I’m gathering pieces to an impossible puzzle. 

I see my dad’s expression when he tells one of his grandpa’s jokes — still hilarious even decades later — and I know I missed out on someone who could’ve been one of the most important people in my life. 

I’ve seen so many VHS tape videos of him, I sometimes trick myself into believing I’ve really seen him in person. 

The last time I was home, we pulled out the tapes once again. I was startled when I couldn’t recognize his voice. It reminded me how detached I’ll always be from him. It doesn’t matter how many facts I memorize or how many photos I study, I’ll never truly know him. 

Not knowing him has taught me it’s possible to miss a stranger, and how fortunate I’ve been in terms of grief. He died when I was two months old — too young to comprehend anything — and I haven’t truly lost anyone since.  

I think of him often and imagine how it might’ve been to have him in my life. I miss him for myself, but I also miss him for my dad. I’ve heard how proudly he speaks about his father, and I’m certain it’s reminiscent of how I talk about mine. 

Living in Chicago the past two years has helped me feel closer to my grandfather as well. He lived here for a good piece of his life, and it’s nice knowing I could be wandering down the very same street he’s walked before. 

It’s agonizing to miss someone I never had a chance to know, but I’m also grateful for the ability to think of him. Just knowing he would’ve been a special part of my life is enough to feel like maybe I do know him, at least a little.