-July 27, now, and then - The end of a great man.
My father’s father died in 1987, when I was fifteen. He was
joyful and ridiculous, and passionate, and kind. We called him Opa.
I still can hear him say, “Just let me go”
I don’t want to let him go. While everyone is standing
around, quoting platitudes, my 15 year old self wants to scream. I want to ask
them, ‘Why, why aren’t you stopping this?? How are you accepting this?? I can’t
let him go – I can’t. I can’t release
him from the pain he is in, or even begin to realize how tired he is from
living. I want to hold on to him, his smell, still there, amid the hospital
bleach and antiseptic. Want to burrow into his chest, and not notice how frail
he is. Want him to stay. To be.
I just can’t stand it.
I can’t.
I went back to their house after church. I know I made a
fuss, but the sound of them, closing his coffin just undid me. His coffin. Oh God!
I wanted to rush up to the front, and shake him awake - tell him that I love
him. Tell him I’m sorry I couldn’t let him go. I know they’re looking for me
now. It’s time to go to the cemetery. But I feel as though he might still be
here, in this place. Our place. It is so quiet. It’s as if the whole world has
ended, or maybe just gone on without me, because I don’t feel like I can,
without him in this world. I wanted to sing for him, but no one asked me. And I
don’t think I could have found the words, or the music in me – even for him. I
don’t ever want to leave this place, up in my apple tree. Our apple tree; where
he made this seat for me. Where the branches filter the light, and the whole
world is lush and green, and alive. And it’s so still, that I can almost hear
the crickets crawling in their veins, within this big old tree. I want to stay
here, until the shadows grow long, and they start their song. I keep turning my
head quickly – trying to catch a glimpse, because I can feel him here, in this
place. And I know, in my heart, that nothing will ever be the same again.
And I don’t ever want to leave.
We called him Opa.
And he called us his boys, much to our delight. And I still miss him, every day. Miss both of them, because really, we didn’t
just lose him the day he died – we lost her, as well. She loved him so much, with
a quiet passion that never wavered. I
just know they must have found each other again. He’d have torn up Heaven if he
couldn’t.
He had a laugh that filled up the room. Just filled it!
And he was happiest, when he was rolling around on the floor
with us, or chasing crickets. We used to fill mayonnaise jars with them, and
marvel at their black beauty. Then Oma
would beg us to let them go. We’d sit
very quietly, cross-legged, with him, waiting for the first one to sing again,
to realize that it was free, that we didn’t really mean it. That we just wanted
to know them. And then, the sound would start, so tentatively, at first. The
first one to recognize freedom and sing to the others that everything was right
again. Then, one by one, the others would join in – an unlikely choir, whose
only common ground we knew of was that they were our captives, and our friends.
We padded in on bare feet, stepping very carefully, so it wouldn’t end.
And Oma just laughed, that she had her choir back again.
I visited their garden again today.
Just slipped into the yard, unnoticed by the neighbors. Unnoticed by the new owners. I just didn’t
want to talk. Was afraid that I might break the spell. I know my parents still
go and put roses on their gravestone, but I can’t feel them there. I feel them
here. In this place. The cyprus tree in
the front yard is gone now, and I remember Oma showing us the dove’s nest in
between its heavy boughs. She was so proud that they had chosen her tree to
nest in. I thought they were a little dull – just shades of grey on grey.
But she knew that they were beautiful.
So much has changed in 10 years. Oma is gone now, but
really, she tried her best to go with Opa when he left. And I understand now,
how my parents wished my Opa peace, in the end.
I took my two babies, and my sister’s youngest to see her a
week before she died. I knew she couldn’t recognize any of us, but I wanted to
do it. Wanted them to meet face to face one last time, to hold us, until we see
each other again.
And I went to her in the night, before she died. Just sat
with her, wishing her peace. She turned her head toward the lilacs I brought
for her. She just loved lilacs. The first true sign of summer, she used to say.
And this time, I had the voice to sing. I sang her the Christmas songs that I
knew she loved so. That she wouldn’t hear this year. And, to be honest, she
hadn’t loved them since she had him. Couldn’t bear to hear them. It was so
hard, going to visit her with my Dad, all those years after Opa died. I think,
maybe Dad felt a little like an orphan. Watching him soldier through her
favorite songs, his eyes imploring me to sing with him. For him.
It broke my heart.
She didn’t want songs then. Didn’t want Christmas ever
again, without my Opa to celebrate it with. My sisters could hardly bear to go
with Dad to see her. It was just too hard. I could hardly stand it, because I
knew that she wasn’t really there – she had retreated into her dementia, and
would only come back for Dad, because he would demand it; because she loved him
so. She always remembered him, but it was a double-edged sword, that. With
remembering, came the pain of her loneliness. Dad would wish her back again – he
just couldn’t help it. I could see how desperately he wanted that.
And I would just wish them both peace.
Him, for wanting what couldn’t be, and her, for wanting not
to be.
So I sang to her, all through that last night – every song I
could remember. And then, I sang Memory for her. The way I did when I was
young, and they were happy. Because, I knew that she was almost home, where she
wanted to be, with him. And that it would comfort her.
And me.
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