For Jackie
Where there is grief, there is tenderness
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“Somehow, between the swells and the bottomless water, the howling storms and the sunrises so beautiful it breaks your heart—you make it work. You make a home among the undrinkable sea and the stunning stretch of stars, and you imagine this is where you’ll live forever.”
- Asia Suler
The day after my grandfather passed, the roses rebloomed in my garden. Two rainbows made an appearance. And during an evening walk, the light lit up the pavement, forming a tunnel from the earth to sky. It reminded me of when I was little and would look up at the clouds and think, “that’s heaven.”
Each morning after, I have been rising to the stillness of the dark. As I unfurl out of bed, the sun takes its time. I rise up to my feet and tiptoe to the kitchen, stopping at the window to watch as the light barely kisses the edge of the earth. Sleep stays heavy in my eyes. The coffee grounds swirl into a steady drip from the espresso machine into my favorite mug. I soften into the yellow rocking chair and pull a quilt over me. It is here, in this quiet moment, minutes before the morning light, where I meet him again.
My grandfather was an early riser. He took solace in the dark of the morning. Finding solitude in a quiet house as his wife and grandchildren stayed tucked in their beds. Often, I would wake as a child to a locked bathroom door. Where he would hole up with a cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes. Breathing in the moments before he would hear the tiny raps of my hand on the wood. I wonder, now, did he feel me coming? The same way I can feel my own daughter, rooms away, when she wakes in these early hours. Could he hear the rustle of the sheets? The little plop of feet as they stepped onto the hardwood? When he’d open the door, he never looked startled, nor mad to be disturbed. It was as if I was a knowing part of his morning routine. The edge walker that led him into the official start of his day. As each moment passes, I am filled with these childhood memories of my grandfather. Trying to hold onto his face. His voice. The spirit behind his eyes. And while I will never see or hear him again, I can feel his presence each morning as I rise.
When I tell friends of the news, I wish there was a way I could emphasize the weight of my loss. Yes, by title he was my grandfather, but by heart, by experience, by everything I knew, he was my father.
“You were the best thing that ever happened to them,” my aunt Christine tells me the night of my grandfather’s wake, as we sit side by side on the couch, next to my grandmother, across from his casket. “You gave them a purpose. And I truly think you kept them young.” I cannot help but feel that 73 wasn’t old enough. I thought I had more time.
My last conversation with him was on a hot August afternoon. The news of his illness came as a shock and I often wonder how I didn’t see it coming. The drive to my childhood home is long, and my daughter cries in the back seat as my husband holds his hand firmly on my knee. When we arrive, my sister greets me outside. “Don’t be alarmed when you see him,” she says softly. As we turn the corner, I brace myself for an unrecognizable face, but there he is, my grandfather, sitting up in his hospital bed. I breathe out a sigh of relief as I take in the face I know. He looks the same, but frailer than usual. “Hi, hi!” he says, as I lean over to give him a kiss.
As we sit together, I am taken aback by his nervousness. The glance back and forth to the machine that is keeping track of his vitals. “It’s okay. Everything looks normal,” my aunt Marie says reassuringly. As the mother of an anesthesiologist, she helps explain the ins and outs of the hospital unit. I feel grateful for her ability to keep the conversation moving, and even lighthearted, laughing alongside my grandfather as he shares why he first fell in love with birds or describes the terror of going down to a basement in Brooklyn. Something, they tell us, that we would only understand if we were a child of their generation.
When she’s ready to leave, she asks my sister to walk her out. Allowing me some alone time with the man who helped raise me. As they exit, a nurse walks in to administer the afternoon round of his medication. While the nurse is adjusting the oxygen mask to his face, my grandfather starts nervously reaching around his neck. “My Saint Christopher cross. It’s not here.”
“Maybe you forgot to put it on?” the nurse inquires.
“No. I never take it off,” my grandfather explains, panicked.
I stand over him and spot a silver chain beneath the tubes and his hospital gown. “It’s right here, grandpa. Would you like me to take it off?” He nods and leans into me. I delicately remove the cross from his neck and hand it to him. As he lays it across the table and smooths it out, I feel my voice caught in my throat. “Thank you for raising us,” I say, trying not to make my words sound final. “It was my pleasure.”
We sit in silence for a while before he tells me how much he has always liked my husband. How he regrets not coming up to see my house and the baby. I want to reach out and hold his hand but we’ve never shared that kind of affection. “The thing about our family,” he says, looking over at me, “we show up.” I nod. Grateful for the ways that he and my grandmother have never let me down.
When I arrive home, I look up the story of Saint Christopher, wanting to know more about the saint that my grandfather held so close to his heart. I learn that he is the patron saint of travelers and motorists. Many people carry his image or wear a pendant of him for a sense of protection and guidance, especially during long journeys. This makes sense. My grandfather was an Air Force veteran and a postal worker. It isn’t until I read more about the imagery of his beloved necklace that I find more significance. The cross my grandfather seldom took off depicted Saint Christopher carrying the child of Christ on his shoulders. Symbolizing the weight of the world and responsibility of carrying others. The story reminds me of the ways my grandparents were devoted to my siblings and me. Selflessly offering up a part of their lives in order to carry out a better one for us.
We say goodbye to my grandfather two days before his birthday. I weep as my sister clutches my hand. The ritual of celebrating his life makes the loss feel too real. I want to hold my brother as he helps my cousins lift our grandfather’s casket, transporting him to each place as we say farewell to him and his life. To the life we shared with him.
At the cemetery, we watch two military officers ceremoniously fold the American flag that accompanied my grandfather from the funeral home to the church to his final resting place. The officer kneels delicately before my grandmother, presenting the beautifully folded up flag as she thanks her husband for his service. I whisper a final goodbye as I place a rose upon my grandfather’s casket. Swaying with emotion as I think of how happy he would would have been with the memorial.
His name was John. But those who knew him called him Jack. And those who loved him called him Jackie. And I loved him a whole lot.
The roses, predawn moments, you- such beautiful places for your grandpa to dwell. Grief is an animal all its own- sometimes ravenous, sometimes napping. It's an honor that you share it with us 🕯thank you Jackie, for giving us Autumn 🎇
Oh Autumn I am so sorry for your loss. My grandfather passed a few weeks ago as well and I had been preparing for it, but it is still just so hard. Holding you and your family in my heart.