How long has it been since I wrote something down? Would I remember the keys that used to welcome me to spirit with speed across the keyboard? What is the purpose, at this point, to put thoughts into the medium of a document? This day, I say the death of my grandfather. Not his passing, but noting possibly the last time I will ever see him alive.
I had not ever realized the full extent of his struggle to survive until yesterday. I could be told of the cancer, of the morphine, of his deteriorating condition, but it never sank in. Walking into his house, his back to me, the morning sun coming through the window onto his desk that has remained steadfastly in the same spot in the same house for all my life, I could not help thinking it was a normal visit.
Except, it was yesterday that I could see for myself the cancerous boils and the seemingly open sores of flesh underneath an ear cut in half. I could see a beard and mustache attempting to cover up what the surgeons had left of his face. I could hear the goodbye in his voice when he spoke of his lack of regrets in a life full of events I could only wish I had a choice to decide which path to take, and for him to get it right every time.
I could not tell him goodbye.
I told him I loved him. He told me to take care of myself. He went back writing down phone numbers onto a notepad. To think, if I had not forgotten my phone the day prior, I would not have seen him in the morning sun. Would not have hugged him one last time. He would not have been able to give me the good will gesture and tell me to look after who I was.
A watch from my great grandfather is now in my Dad’s possession, waiting until one of his sons has a son to pass it on. I have just become aware of an unknown heirloom. A gold watch in a black case, that sat on my grandfather’s desk for oh so many years is now close to being in my possession. One of his last wishes was to have that watch stay in the family under his name and my great grandfather’s name.
How can someone so aware of his life and those of his forebears, witnessing those of his youngest kin, still be laid low and called to the end of his life? There is still much I can see of him desiring more. There was no giving up in his voice, but more so recognition of his time. He could feel the end coming, aware of his own mortality.
I wish him Godspeed. I can’t wait to see him again.
