Grandpa

When we drive to our adoption support group, we pass the Inglewood Cemetery where my dad is buried. As we drive pass, I always say, "Kids say, hi to grandpa!" And they do. But this particularly Saturday, questions arose after they said, hi.

“Where is Grandpa?” Rowan asked.

“He’s in the cemetery,” I answered.

“That’s where dead people live,” Jory added.

Uh, you don’t really live in a cemetery, but I thought I would let it go. “That’s just where his body is. Where is Grandpa’s soul?”

“In Heaven with God,” Rowan and Jory replied.

I love these kids. “That’s right.”

“Grandpa is in the cemetery?” Jory questioned.

“Yes.”

“Uncle Bobby is in the cemetery?” he asked confused.

“No, Uncle Bobby isn’t in the cemetery.” Where did that come from I wondered?

“Aunt Lavonia’s- -“ he continued.

“No, baby. Uncle Bobby isn’t in the cemetery.” I thought on his line of questioning and it dawned on me the person he hears referred to as grandpa is Uncle Bobby. So he was associating the word “grandpa” solely with Uncle Bobby. “No, grandpa is the word you call your parent’s father, just like you call Oma, Oma. We were saying hi, to Mommy’s daddy,” I said, hoping my explanation cleared things up.

“Your daddy?” he questioned, not quite buying my answer.

“Yes, Mommy’s daddy. Just like Oma is my mommy.”

Silence.

I guess the subject was closed and I wasn’t quite sure he fully understood what I was saying. I decided not to press the issue. Maybe next time, I could explain it clearer as my son negotiated the tangled world of family relationships.