A Heartfelt Anniversary
Today marks the one year anniversary of my grandfather, HB's, death. One year has gone by without silly arguments, trusted smiles, and fluttering eyelashes. His shadow is strong. I think of him daily. I remember some details of that day; but they do not linger like I thought they would. I thought when I would recall HB's passing I would automatically call up the images of the phone call informing me of his death, saying goodbye to his lifeless body, and yes, even what I was wearing. I can tell you that now when I think of his absence, that which resonates is the hollowness of a great life once lived. I no longer remember what I wore that day; and I do remember the phone call, and of course I remember seeing the body which at one point held a magnificent soul. Yet, those are not the memories that make me ache. What makes me ache is fear. I fear that I did not learn all I could have from him. I fear that my children will never know this man and that I will inadequately be able to teach them what he so eloquently taught me. Few people understood him. I think that was his way of weeding through people he didn't want to waste time on. He was never as careless with me as he could be with others. He was a tender grandfather with great love and solid loyalty. I was a very lucky granddaughter.
In ways I am comforted. Such as right now, it simply baffles me that it has been a year since this man was alive. I miss him but his absence does not seem as if it has been that long. Which to me means that in certain ways he is still living within me. I am lucky for that realization. I believe that my specificity has improved greatly. He taught me that word when I was 7. I would continue to grow up constantly being reminded how important it was for one to be specific. Not just for others sake, but one should never waste their words, breath and life saying things that have already been said.
He wrote letters to many people. At his memorial I met a man who had known HB for more than 50 years; only to have been in each other's presence a dozen times, and spoke on the phone even less. In an age where it seems impossible to think of how a relationship, a friendship could grow out of such parameters I am reminded of the simplicity and power that is found in a hand written letter. They corresponded weekly if not more; once receiving a letter from the other, each would immediately sit down and compose a letter and have it in the mail in time for the next pick up. I miss that sort of connectedness. I ache for it, like I ache for my grandfather. In mourning his loss; I have found myself more able to give way to my younger self, and put away parts of my childhood.
A dear friend of mine recently lost a grandparent and in words of comfort her sister told her that this kind of loss seems to be a rite of passage for those of us who were able to grow into adulthood with these octogenarians. What a gift, and what a loss, but again the greatness is what needs to be remembered. In the last weeks of his life my uncle was able to capture HB's songs, humor, and personality on a CD. I listen occasionally to remind myself of immortality, and what it means to be great; even if it is just in the eyes of a grandchild. When I remember my grandfather I am simultaneously reminded of my childhood. I could not ask for anything more sweet.
In ways I am comforted. Such as right now, it simply baffles me that it has been a year since this man was alive. I miss him but his absence does not seem as if it has been that long. Which to me means that in certain ways he is still living within me. I am lucky for that realization. I believe that my specificity has improved greatly. He taught me that word when I was 7. I would continue to grow up constantly being reminded how important it was for one to be specific. Not just for others sake, but one should never waste their words, breath and life saying things that have already been said.
He wrote letters to many people. At his memorial I met a man who had known HB for more than 50 years; only to have been in each other's presence a dozen times, and spoke on the phone even less. In an age where it seems impossible to think of how a relationship, a friendship could grow out of such parameters I am reminded of the simplicity and power that is found in a hand written letter. They corresponded weekly if not more; once receiving a letter from the other, each would immediately sit down and compose a letter and have it in the mail in time for the next pick up. I miss that sort of connectedness. I ache for it, like I ache for my grandfather. In mourning his loss; I have found myself more able to give way to my younger self, and put away parts of my childhood.
A dear friend of mine recently lost a grandparent and in words of comfort her sister told her that this kind of loss seems to be a rite of passage for those of us who were able to grow into adulthood with these octogenarians. What a gift, and what a loss, but again the greatness is what needs to be remembered. In the last weeks of his life my uncle was able to capture HB's songs, humor, and personality on a CD. I listen occasionally to remind myself of immortality, and what it means to be great; even if it is just in the eyes of a grandchild. When I remember my grandfather I am simultaneously reminded of my childhood. I could not ask for anything more sweet.
posted by amandakate at 10:37 AM
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