Grandad

My great grandfather ("Pa" or, as my nephew called him "little Pa") passed away in September of 2003. I won't let him go.

Not in the forgetting sense; I don't ever want to forget. I won't let go of the memories. Everything is colored by my thoughts of him.

I remember when my family moved to Arkansas. I was nine and hated it. My relatives sniffed at my brothers and at me like suspicious cats to a new canned food. We smelled out of place. They were cordial but quiet when we didn't understand the peculiar language, the drawl of the south. "I'm sorry. What?" We spoke too quickly, too sharply. Too alien.

I wondered if we'd ever fit. But he was different, too. No words, just a crushing hug and I met my granddad, a white-haired man in horn-rimmed glasses, barely taller than I at nine. No prying questions about schools, math or hobbies, just a hug and a smile. Family. Later, to a neighbor, "These're my grandkids."

It wasn't the first time I'd met him, but the last time was early -- too early for good memory. I was 3 and we stayed only briefly. That's why the family was so clinical, so distant, I think, when we returned. "How long will they stay this time? Or will they just leave again, after we're attached?" They were afraid it would hurt again.

My granddad knew we might not be there long - all the more reason to hug us closer now. Hold tight, you don't know how long you have.

...

When we lost my grandma Grimes, I was 10. A year here as family in this new home and already holes appeared. She was gone. I'd hardly known her.

My mother tells great stories of when I was young and would sit in Grandma Grimes' lap and sip tea from a saucer, sharing her afternoon ritual. Gold rimmed, cream porcelain with pale rose pattern, I thought it was gorgeous. Drinking from the saucer was special, for me. I have the cup still; the saucer is chipped.

Picking blackberries or zucchini in her garden out back and being chased by a snake are other memories. It was always summer with Grandma. I can't think of her in snow. Crocheted butterfly magnets on the green refrigerator, waterspots on the "stainless" steel sink, soft light coming in the window, though I don't know what color the curtains were. It's odd what you remember. And odder still what you don't.

A year into this and I had to muster mourning over chilled tea and dusty windows.

...

The first time Granddad was in the hospital, I didn't go. It was odd. Five years since grandma's funeral, but I'd had enough. Hospitals always smelled of death and old urine. Later, at his house - his now, she was gone - I sat with him. The room smelled of vanilla cigars and old spice, like him, like life. He was sick, but he would get better.

He did. And when he could breathe again, we'd talk. I understood not breathing and he understood the fear. He voiced what I didn't know I thought. "You can't keep people close by pushing them away." He loved me even when I was stupid. "I loved her," he said about Grandma. "When she died, I did too. A little. If her death didn't kill me, I'll probably live forever."

I figured he would, too. After 4 rounds with cancer and an amazing recovery after every one, I figured he was invincible - and safe to love. Superman in overalls.

...

And so I'm sifting through these memories when I ought to be asleep. I keep wondering what he'd tell me - and all he'd do is grin. He'd tell me I'm 24, I should be able to think for myself by now or I'm not as smart as he thought I was. He'd tell me I'm clinging too much, that I can't bring him back and that crying won't do anyone any good. And that if I survive, I must be immortal.

I figure I must be. I come from good stock.

...

But I won't let go. I can't patch the hole in my world where the wisdom used to leak in, but I can keep what I collected while it did. Hold tight, I think, but to what? To everyone, always: I don't know how long I'll have.