juliagladys (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} juliagladys) wrote,@ 2007-03-30 16:27:00 |
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Grandpa
My dad always said that my Grandfather was like a cat with nine lives. His teasing nature didn’t stop with playful winks to his grandkids or joking with old friends. Somebody ought to have told him that one doesn’t flirt with death. But time and time again he proved that he didn’t need that advice; he always seemed to land on his feet, like a cat with lives to spare.
I never felt too guilty trotting around the world to various destinations for various reasons. Even when I received word that my grandfather was in the hospital recovering from this or that major surgery my thought was “the old salt will be driving to Nebraska with an oxygen tank in the back of the car in just a matter of days.”
Things were a little different before I left for the Peace Corps. I went to Denver to visit the extended family, but mostly my grandfather. Together we strolled down memory lane, rummaging through stacks of completely disorganized snapshots: naval reunions, summer vacation to the Grand Canyon, my uncle in his band uniform, my aunt in her prom dress, my dad in tight pastel plaid pants, cousins’ birthdays, dance recitals, my high school graduation. It had been too long since we had sat together in the amber of the afternoon sunlit living room on the furniture smelly gently of secondhand smoke and old spice.
I was touched when he shared with that his lady friend sent him the “Dear John” letter. I could relate. I was just ending a relationship before leaving for Mali. My Grandfather opened up to me and we shared our disappointment. At this moment we stopped being grandfather and granddaughter, old and young; we were two friends sharing experiences.
It was more heartbreaking to have established this bond of friendship so late. The feeling that this was the last time we would see each other hung in the air like heavy humidity. We both acted cheerful, doing our best to believe that this was not the last time. Saying goodbye that night was uncomfortable.
About a year ago a received a letter from Grandpa comparing our overseas experiences. Although he had been in the Navy during WWII, he told me he could relate to the loneliness of being abroad, and the excitement of receiving a letter. I now cherish any bit of news I receive from Grandpa as potentially the last from him, making it the last from all of my grandparents.
The recent news of the seriousness of his condition has worried me that we were right and that was the last time we will see each other, that was his last letter to me. But I can’t help hoping he will hold on again, like he has done so many times before. I long to hear him say my name with two syllables (Jul-ya) again and tell me that I’ve grown up so much. I have a plane ticket home; seeing my grandfather is a top priority. I’m hoping this cat has a life yet to spare.
My dad always said that my Grandfather was like a cat with nine lives. His teasing nature didn’t stop with playful winks to his grandkids or joking with old friends. Somebody ought to have told him that one doesn’t flirt with death. But time and time again he proved that he didn’t need that advice; he always seemed to land on his feet, like a cat with lives to spare.
I never felt too guilty trotting around the world to various destinations for various reasons. Even when I received word that my grandfather was in the hospital recovering from this or that major surgery my thought was “the old salt will be driving to Nebraska with an oxygen tank in the back of the car in just a matter of days.”
Things were a little different before I left for the Peace Corps. I went to Denver to visit the extended family, but mostly my grandfather. Together we strolled down memory lane, rummaging through stacks of completely disorganized snapshots: naval reunions, summer vacation to the Grand Canyon, my uncle in his band uniform, my aunt in her prom dress, my dad in tight pastel plaid pants, cousins’ birthdays, dance recitals, my high school graduation. It had been too long since we had sat together in the amber of the afternoon sunlit living room on the furniture smelly gently of secondhand smoke and old spice.
I was touched when he shared with that his lady friend sent him the “Dear John” letter. I could relate. I was just ending a relationship before leaving for Mali. My Grandfather opened up to me and we shared our disappointment. At this moment we stopped being grandfather and granddaughter, old and young; we were two friends sharing experiences.
It was more heartbreaking to have established this bond of friendship so late. The feeling that this was the last time we would see each other hung in the air like heavy humidity. We both acted cheerful, doing our best to believe that this was not the last time. Saying goodbye that night was uncomfortable.
About a year ago a received a letter from Grandpa comparing our overseas experiences. Although he had been in the Navy during WWII, he told me he could relate to the loneliness of being abroad, and the excitement of receiving a letter. I now cherish any bit of news I receive from Grandpa as potentially the last from him, making it the last from all of my grandparents.
The recent news of the seriousness of his condition has worried me that we were right and that was the last time we will see each other, that was his last letter to me. But I can’t help hoping he will hold on again, like he has done so many times before. I long to hear him say my name with two syllables (Jul-ya) again and tell me that I’ve grown up so much. I have a plane ticket home; seeing my grandfather is a top priority. I’m hoping this cat has a life yet to spare.
