He knew it was his last get-together. I do not know how he knew, but there was a finality about his words and a far-away look in his eyes that I’d never seen before—stillness, acceptance, voices calling from far off.
The house was filled with chaos, family teasing, laughter, kids discovering toys, adults catching up with each other, teenagers gathering in the center of the room to compare notes on how the world was shaping up. The open floorplan allowed all to see into the kitchen where the food was being prepared and the women fussed over each dish—setting up for a grand meal.
He was just sitting there, somber, taking it all in. I watched him for a while, puzzled by the spectacle of aging. Wrinkled, sagging, blotchy skin, huge veins on his arms. His friendly but droopy face—extended stomach and feeble hands. His piercing blue eyes that looked like deep pools today. His children, grand-children and great-grand-children filled the space–sucked the oxygen out of the room. Everything was moving too fast for him.
He peered over his reading glasses and spoke directly to me. “Don’t forget,” he said, “don’t ever forget that you have a wonderful family.” “Yes, we do,” I responded, as I proceeded to make small talk about the kids and some of the hair-brained ideas they had come up with lately. He laughed a bit, then looked off in the distance at nothing that I could see.
What I would have given to capture his knowledge and wisdom and spread it across his full room of posterity. What better people we would all be for it. He was a beautiful man. I loved having him as a grandfather. He always made me feel special. He owned a landscaping nursery and brought me flowers from time to time, none quite as beautiful as the begonia on the morning of my fifth birthday. It was captivating and it happened to be picture day, so I took it to school and insisted that I hold the flower in the picture. I felt like it would keep him closer to me somehow.
When I saw him next, he lay on beautifully tucked silk with his well-worn hands folded across his stomach. Despite his well-lived life, the air in the funeral parlor ached with longing and grief. I flashed on him sitting in the big green chair amid the family free-for-all just last weekend. I was never so sure that he knew his time was nigh.
I remembered Corrie Ten Boom and her father’s words about death. “Corrie, when do I give you your train ticket? “Right before I get on the train,” she answered.
Could it be that death is like that? Somehow, we get our ticket right before we board, and we are momentarily prepared for our passing.
I took comfort knowing that he was ready, even though we were not. I thought of a million questions to ask him. So much knowledge and history gone. I wished for one more of his warm hugs. The finality of it all was stark, overwhelming, and surreal. I found the kindergarten picture and put it up against a small vase on the mantle for a while.
Suzanne S. Eaton is an author and marketing consultant. She has written many corporate stories and magazines. She authored the book “Chinese Herbs,” reprinted by Harmony Press seven times. In her early days of writing, she was the first woman to get a feature article in Off Road Magazine and has been published in various magazines and anthologies. Most recently, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Writer Shed Stories and Seaborne Magazine have selected her work for publication.
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