What the Body Remembers

I don’t have many memories of my Grandpa—I was eight or nine when he passed—but the ones I do have are vivid. Cemented.
And the clearest of all? His energy hugs.

Whenever we walked into the house, my Grams was there first—ready with her lipstick kisses and her “Hi, sweetie!”—and then we’d run straight to Grandpa.

He was always in his usual spot at the dining room table, smoking a cigarette, pretending to be so tired.
He needed an energy hug.

We’d run up, wrap our little arms around him, and squeeze as hard as we could to “recharge” him. He always smelled like that classic ice-blue Aquavelva—sharp and clean—completely overpowering the smoke from his cigarette. When he was going through chemo, those hugs became sacred. Like we were helping keep him here a little longer.

That’s the memory that stuck.
But it’s not the only one.

I remember their bedroom — two single beds on opposite sides of the room.
I remember him coming down to the creek to yell at my cousins and me for crossing to the other side.
I remember sneaking out of bed to watch the Detroit Lions with him until Grams caught me and sent me back to bed.
I remember him and Grams arguing, voices raised but still calling each other “honey” and “dear,” as if that softened the edges.
And I remember his funeral — the way his hand felt in the coffin. Cold. Wrinkled. Still.

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What Trauma Doesn’t Erase

My memory isn’t what it used to be.
Trauma does that—it shuffles the deck and leaves you with only fragments.
But certain memories stick, no matter what else fades.

The ones attached to the senses.
The smell of aftershave.
The sound of a football game playing quietly in the dark.
The feel of a cold hand that once gave the warmest hugs.

Those are the anchors.
The proof that even when our brains go foggy, our bodies still remember love.

I miss you, Grandpa. 💙