I was lucky enough to have three grandfathers growing up, and each one of them was in my life. They all loved me, too.
Each one was different, and I called them different names. My dad’s dad wanted to be called Bennie. Later in life, I rebelled and started calling him Grandpa, and he didn’t seem to mind. My mom’s dad we called Grandpa Rob, and my Nana’s new husband after she and Grandpa Rob divorced, I called Poppa. Some spelled it Papa, others Poppa.
They’re all gone now, and I was never able, maybe allowed, to ceremoniously mourn either of them. My Grandpa Rob passed when I was on my way to Massachusetts from North Carolina and they had a small ceremony after I returned home. Poppa’s service I was unaware of until after it happened, and Bennie passed when the families were torn in two.
None of that matters, though, because I remember each of them for the good they were, for how they loved me. Of course, I knew them each in their prime of politeness, after they had settled down a bit in life, but I choose to memorialize them each how I want to. After all, they were my grandfathers.