When you miss a person you don't just miss the interactions.
My grandma and grandpa (really Papa, he was always Papa, from the time I could talk) are gone now and the world is harder and has more edges without them.
It isn't just the things they did or the way they said, "There's my girl!" when I opened their heavy noisy front door. It isn't just the way they hugged and doted and loved me, always, all the time. They had a culture. A culture that doesn't exist anymore.
When I was tiny they had parties. Parties from a long-gone time. Parties where everyone was dressed up and drinking and smoking and singing as Papa played songs familiar to them on the dark wood antique upright piano. They all knew the words and they laughed and they sang. Together. And I sat on the edge of the piano bench, swinging my legs and smiling and absorbing it and
singing along too.
Their way of living and being had tones of that long-gone time and it was graceful and respectable and I miss the way it felt to be around it. You could feel it. There is no way to replace it.
I miss those songs. And I miss the hugs and words and mannerisms and habits and I pretty much just miss all of it and all of them, every day, all the time.