How do you miss someone you never met?

Grandparents Day is Sept. 13, which has made me think about my own grandparents.

My maternal grandparents, my Babi and Dedo from Slovakia, are still alive, and I talk to them nearly every week. I know the little quirks about them that don't usually get recounted. I know that in addition to being in choir and working as an eye doctor, my Babi, despite her chiffon scarves and gentle manner, uses a dozen emojis per message, encourages me to buy crop tops, and once spent time waiting for a train suggesting we flatten coins on the railroad tracks, even after a stranger yelled at us.

I know that my Dedo, who was a former mayor and follows every current event in politics, is deeply patriotic about Slovakia. He is stubborn about his views and proud of both his country and his Catholic faith, which he held onto even during communism. He is still keen to have a debate, even when that means the exhausting effort of translating back and forth between him and my dad, whose views are almost diametrically opposed to his. He also keeps up a political blog despite his health difficulties. Whenever I see him, he likes going to the same restaurant, where he orders the same classic Slovak meal, which, especially in the past, he accompanied with a hearty pour of beer.

I never had the opportunity to know these kinds of intimate quirks about my American grandparents, Edwin, or Bud, and Mildred, or Mickey Holloway, even though I can tell you plenty of facts about their lives.

My grandfather, Bud, was part of an eight-man rowing crew that became national champions, was recruited to play football by Pop Warner but delayed college to help support his family, and served as a Major in Europe during World War II. He sold heavy magnetic lifting equipment for a living and traveled extensively on business, even visiting Russia during the Cold War, which my dad's friends used to joke meant he must have been a spy. His experiences in Russia are something I would have especially loved to ask him about because I have spent years studying Russian and Russian literature, including at university. I inherited many of his art books, too.

There are parallels between Bud and me in our craving to travel and do gutsy things, while also being interested in many different fields. There are also stories about him that I wish I could ask him about. After he returned home from the war, Bud happened to see his father for the first time since childhood. One day, while his father was riding on a trolley, he recognized Bud through the window from photographs of him that had appeared in the newspaper over the years. When I visualize this moment, I think it is almost cinematic. I wonder how Bud saw his father in that moment, and whether he felt more joy, anger, or hope.

My dad tells me that Bud would have really loved me, which makes me feel validated in someone I have come to admire, but also pretty hollow because I wish I could have had the chance to bond with him.

I know that my grandmother, Mickey, grew up in coal-mining country in Pennsylvania, where her father was a coal miner, and that in addition to working at a bank, she volunteered at a hospital and at polling stations. I admire how much she seemed to believe in civic duty. She also loved cooking, watching cooking shows and collecting cookbooks, and her recipes now live on through my sister, Alicia. At the same time, I have no idea what her sense of humor was, what she might have done on a Sunday afternoon, or what her opinions were about the presidents of her lifetime, the latest technology, or makeup.

I do know one story that I wonder about and which paints more of a picture of her. Her son, my uncle “Skip,” was killed in Vietnam at just 20 years old while serving as a medic. He was saving people when he was caught in the fire, and because of his brave actions, many soldiers were saved. Mickey already knew what had happened when a priest and an army officer came to the door. When I think about what must have gone through her mind in that blip of time, I can't fathom the pain.

We record the information that seems important, such as the big names, wars, victors and losers, and election results; birth, marriage, and death certificates; what someone made a living doing and who they were related to. Yet we don't always record what kind of breakfast our grandparents ate, how they dealt with boredom, or how they approached hardship. If given the choice, I think I would rather know the latter details than any of the flashy things they could have done in their careers.

I have a photograph of Bud and Mickey from New Year's. I only know it was New Year's because Mickey is wearing a headband with big letters that say “Happy New Year.” As she leans into the crook of Bud's chest, she looks up at him with complete adoration. Even though I never knew them personally, I can witness in that photograph something that anyone would envy in a partnership.

My dad remembers his parents sitting together every evening in the same spot where they'd smoke, drink cocktails, and talk for hours. They ultimately died only months apart, battling cancer together. My dad thinks the reason they held on so long is because they had each other.

There are so many people I wish I could have met, or known for longer. Sometimes I wonder what my relationship with my grandparents would have been like and what trivial things I would have ended up cherishing.

It makes me a little existential to know that my grandparents never knew I existed. I will never know them in the almost over-familiar way I know my Babi and Dedo. Still, I recognize pieces of them in myself, whether in what interests and motivates me, or even, uncannily sometimes, the places and situations I end up in.

I feel grief, regardless of how long you knew someone, is a responsibility. If I am not able to know my grandparents, I can at least preserve what I have of them and let what I inherited from them point me toward the direction I am called toward.