My grandfather

My grandfather died last night at midnight. I had the opportunity to be with him on wednesday all day. When I came in, he was basically unconscious, breathing laboriously (50 years of smoking Kools), and unresponsive. He had been taken off all liquids and sustenance the night before. When my grandma told him my brothers and I were there, he sat up, his spirit twinkled behind the morphine induced glaze on their surface. He stretched out his hand and I held it.

My brothers were considerably more reserved around him than I. My grandfather noticed it. After five hours or so though, when my brother was standing in front of him and he woke up, saw him, and huffed out his name..."matthew," he said. He stretched his hand out and matt took it. Matt wept. I have not seen my brother cry in 10 years.

All of his children were there. My dad and he had a strained relationship for a long time. But his death and the months leading to it led to their reconciliation. He made a point to tell my dad he loved him. My dad reciprocated. It was so sweet. My dad doesn't cry that much. But he had tears in his eyes at that moment.

We all stood around him, holding vigil without trying. It was so beautiful. My grandfather on the threshold brought us all into a contemplative space. We were worshipping together.

His body was emaciated, which made transparent his gaunt cheeks, his long arms. I get my long arms from him. (Thanks, Granddad...inside joke) He was at least 1/4 american indian, but he was adopted so his birth records were lost. He had very little hair on his body, smooth skin, pronounced brow, angular jaw.

While his body was so thin, his hands were still large. They told the story of a life of manual labor. He was always so strong. He could fix anything. He smelled like aftershave and smoke. A smell that always made me feel at ease. He was a mechanic. His hands always had cracks in them with oil in them that the industrial soap he used missed. His finger nails were always clean and filed though. He made a point to do that. My grandmother, whom he divorced but later had a major reconciliation with, cleaned his finger nails and filed them on Tuesday so they'd be clean when he passed.

We stood around him, holding steady. He asked us if we would be okay; if we'd be careful. At one point he said, "this is really something...all of y'all." He needed to know that we were going to be okay. After a life of devotion to his life as a mechanic, he was ready to soften and let go. Us standing around him made that easier. I think.

I taught my class this morning, dedicated to him silently. I will miss him. I actually did not know him that well. I had not seen him for almost 3 years before wednesday. He lived a lonesome life...he was always withdrawn and left family events early. But he sent me a card every birthday and christmas. They were always, from the time I was little, those cards with something sentimental printed on them in cursive writing with a pastel picture of a landscape or something. I thought they were weird when I was growing up. I came to like them. They began to be of a religious character toward the end. He would write the date at the top and sign "Love, Granddad" at the bottom. Never once did he write a note. I guess he thought the card's message was perfect. I have a sense he spent time picking them out. I can see him doing that.

He would always call people he loved "baby." Again, I thought that was weird when I was young. I came to enjoy it though. He was so sweet in those little ways. A leathery smoking mechanic, but he called me "baby". He'd say "grandaddy loves you, baby" to me.

I sit in a coffee shop, working on homework like I have done in this very seat so many times. I can't help but think about all the other times that I have done this my grandfather was living. I can't help but think of how many days I have lived without thinking of him at all. But he was somewhere. Now he is gone. Death is so permanent. So excruciatingly and exquisitely permanent. What a reality. The most profound, it seems.