What I should have said at my grandparents’ memorial service

I sat in the front of the room, but I may as well have been invisible. And I was fine with that.

The night wasn’t about me, after all, it was about honoring my grandparents, Bob and Cynthia Gibson. They had been married for more than 60 years before they died last year, less than two weeks apart. I traveled from California to my home state of Florida last weekend to be at their “Celebration of Life” ceremony. More than 100 people sat in the banquet hall at the Sanibel Harbor Marriott with large windows that overlooked the setting sun as a slideshow featuring images of their life shot out of a projector.

Family and friends were there, and because of my grandfather’s history of coaching college and professional football — most notably his connection to Bowling Green State University in Ohio, where he coached for 11 years — the room was filled with former players and coaches, as well.

My father, Doug, did most of the talking followed by my uncle, Dave. A number of friends, former players and coaches shared funny and heartwarming stories about them. Jack Harbaugh (father of NFL coaches Jim and John Harbaugh), who coached with Bob at BGSU, told a great story about the time he visited my grandfather a few years ago with a bunch of old coaches and they ended up running plays in the front yard.

I didn’t plan on speaking, but as the stories began to flow, I found myself wanting to share. But I didn’t. I just sat there. So I would like to share some now.

Once my grandparents retired, they set up shop on Sanibel Island in Southwest Florida. Every morning, Cynthia would walk her dog on the beach to pick up trash and collect shells. When we visited during my childhood, she would wake my brother and me while it was still dark and drag us along. Walking along those white-sand beaches, she would point out turtle nests and we would hunt for flipper tracks. She would ask a million questions about my life, eager to know. Rarely did I ask about hers.

Some of my best memories of my grandfather involved sports. I would sit next to him on the couch on Saturdays and Sundays and listen as he talked about a young coaching assistant he had while working with the Detroit Lions named Bill Belichick and how the football players these days just don’t know how to block like they used to.

I wanted to share these stories, but I didn’t. Even my 7-year-old sister wrote a few sweet words about them. I wanted to tell the people in the room that I knew all of their names because my grandparents had been talking about them my whole life. I wanted to say that Bob was so competitive and funny that he talked about the time he beat me in golf 10 years ago, as he lay in his hospital bed during my last visit. Or how every time I spoke to my grandmother on the phone, she mentioned the bromeliad I bought for her birthday like it was the greatest gift she had ever received. I was a little nervous about speaking in front of a crowd so I decided to stay hidden in plain sight, but I should have said something.

It was a continuation of our entire relationship. We never said enough to each other. Sure, our family would visit them a couple of times a year and have brief conversations on holidays, but only because my dad pushed the connection. Now I’m more curious than ever about their lives and — after not having much to be proud of — I finally have things I want to share with them about my life.

Now they are gone, the memorial has passed, and there is still so much left unsaid.

Writing this will never make up for that, but it’s worth a try.

This story was originally published March 2, 2016 at 4:40 AM with the headline "What I should have said at my grandparents’ memorial service."