disremembering the dead

I have warm memories of my maternal grandfather.    
Mother swears I don't.  
"You're confusing old photos with reality."  
Fondness. Fanciful, Mirth. Memories.    
   
   
Lately, my memories do not answer  
when called. They are tardy things.    
Inconvenient. Incomplete. Transient. Torn.    
   
   
Yet, why does mother insist so?  
She has her own memories of her father.    
Stoic. Steelworker. Widower. Weary.    
   
   
I've no heart for this clash of memories.    
So grandfather is no longer a fit topic.    
But, sad the man should die twice.    
Sinner? Saint? Fading. Forgotten.