The phone rang and it was still dark out. I turned and looked at the clock: 6:13. I knew who it was and what she was calling for. I laid in bed unwilling to hear her voice crack. “Not yet, I’ll call her after I shower.”
After dressing I walk with reservation towards the phone.
I dial the number on the call log hoping my grandmother doesn’t answer. I’m not ready for her yet. Instead, my mother picks up stifling a sob into the phone.
She didn’t need to tell me but she did and I asked the obligatory questions. We’d never had this conversation before but I knew how it would go. I’d imagined it so many times in the past few weeks.
“Gramp died at 5:04 this morning Christy.” Then came the dreaded request: “I need you to come stay with me.” I accepted it without argument. That day was much the same as so many others. I attended meetings and checked my email and was determined to stay on target with my work and school duties.
My sister collected me that night and I brought my work with me, unwilling to let death swallow me. We pulled up in front of my Grandmother’s house. A variety of vehicles lined either side of the street. I identified many of them as belonging to family members I hadn’t seen since before Grampy got sick. We went inside.
It was crowded, stuffy and strangely lacking in emotion. Some sat relaxed on couches holding plates of steaming food while others lounged on the floors, with no chairs left to sit comfortably. Kids ran through the rooms tripping over legs and laughing heartily. We took turns filling the space with chatter, glad when it was our turn to rest. New faces flowed in and out all day while many familiar ones remained.
It was a weird orgy of idle talk, story telling and food and we lost ourselves in it for three days. After that first night my Mom and I drove home in the snowstorm. I asked her what he was like when she was young. She smiled faintly as she recalled how she played her parents against each other in her youth.
“Nan wouldn’t let me do something so I’d call up Gramp at the store and he’d say ‘don’t you worry about it honey, I’ll talk to your mother for you.'”
For three days we were just family mourning the loss of the oldest limb on our tree, sharing our memories and being enriched by other’s memories.
Ever since I can remember my grandfather was mostly bald but when I was young we used to line up beside the couch where he’d be relaxing watching football and take turns combing what little hair he had on the sides of his head. The only hair utensil my Grampy owned was one of those black plastic barber shop combs they’d give you for free at school on picture day. One of us would sit at his head combing away while another would perch at his feet rubbing his feet and calves. He would enthrall us with stories of his 26 brothers and sisters while somehow always managing to work in the importance of a good education.
My part in his life was so small. After talking with the people who knew him better, I am proud to admit I spring from his line, to know how honorable and well liked and humane he was.