I never had a grandpa.
That person who holds a special place in so many people’s lives.
Someone who might have given me driving lessons at the age of 13,
      the way my daughter’s grandpa had done with her.
Someone who would have built drip castles with me on the beach
      or taken me to the Bronx Zoo,
      or the Museum of Natural History,
      or a double feature movie, popcorn and all.

But, I never had a grandpa.
My mother’s parents were both dead by the time I was born.
My father’s father left the family when my dad was 16.
I try to conjure up that man, the escape artist,
        who fled and was never heard from again.
       One never spoke of it. Verboten.
       So, both he and the reason for his flight are a mystery.

I did have a Grandma. My dad’s mom. Minnie.
She was one of the scariest people I have ever encountered.
      Small, squat, sturdy, serious, really serious.
      I can’t ever recall seeing a smile on her face.
She kept my father’s sisters, her two daughters, prisoners.
     Aunt Toby and Aunt Rose.
     They lived with her their entire lives in service to the Queen.
     It’s like a Grimm’s Fairy tale.

How did my dad get out?
That’s a love story.
Family fable.
He saw the striking young woman (my mom-to-be)
     working in a New York City showroom.
Love at first sight!
“Just saw the girl I am going to marry,”
       he declared to his co-worker later that day.
And he did.

Sadly, he didn’t live to be Grandpa to my kids
I wish my kids had had a chance to know him.
     His warmth, his humor, his stories.
How in the world was he able to garner
    that sense of playfulness and laughter
Raised in that damaged den?

Maybe it was his dad,
   my unknown Grandpa, who harbored those gifts and passed them on.
Could it be that my phantom grandpa,
the no-goodnik, the deserter,
Left behind some good stuff after all? 

I wonder what became of him.