"Look at that sky,” Mom says in a murmuring nod towards the window. It’s a large pane of thick glass, snug in the bottleneck of the far wall. Through it, we can see the sun has begun to pull the bright gold of the day down below the horizon of Brooklyn rooftops, leaving stretching brushstrokes of periwinkles and pinks in its wake. It’s Yontiv. And soon enough, we can hear it. The first melodies of Simchat Torah crescendoing from inside warm homes and stuffy temples and pouring out into the chilly autumn streets, empty of vehicles and exhaust, engines and car horns replaced by dancing feet and throats swelled with song.
In this hospice room there is no sound, save the ticking of the small oblong clock opposite the single bed. It’s jarringly loud, even more so in an air tense with waiting for the funeral home staff to arrive. “You know, I never heard that second hand, until now,” my sister mentions, to no one in particular. A brief discussion of removing the batteries, or perhaps smashing it entirely, ensues, then fades back into silence.
Seeds of other conversations take root in this way, none of them ever growing to a full bloom. For even the talk of arrangements and plans…it’s all just too much, and yet, not enough at all.
In between those sparse clusters of chatter, each of our eyes take silent turns to gaze at him, then at each other, and finally, at ourselves. I don’t know how the others feel, what they are thinking. I hardly know my own self, everything inside of me is a jumble of emotions. For some wild seconds, I almost forget he’s there. And then for other long and visceral moments, he’s all I can see, even when I’m not looking directly at him. Grandpa. His face is already so tight across his bones and the color of his skin is all but gone, yet all I can see is his unforgettable smile as he laughs, that light that was always behind his eyes. Laughter seemed to be woven into his DNA; always quick with a quip, always with some sort of play on words, always with a good joke at the ready, even when it grew hard for him to get it out. To give joy to others through humor is a gift in and of itself, but he was generous far beyond that. Whether it was lessons to us, fighting for his country, helping men dress their best, or aiding seniors in getting work, he was a man who gave without question. And he was loved, by all who knew him, even if you didn’t know him well. He had an ability to touch your life, even if it was only fleeting as a wave and a smile.
And the thing about that, in a species where immortality is so highly sought after, so many will chase things like dynasty and power, in hopes that they will live on long after they’re gone from this earth. But really, what makes someone’s memory cherished, lasting, and nestled in the heart like nothing else, is a spirit who is loving, giving, and full of sharing their light solely to make others feel better. That was Grandpa.
That will always be, Grandpa.
The clock is still ticking, but I don’t hear it anymore. Outside that same window, the sun is gone. Pinks and periwinkles have deepened into blues and indigoes. And there, high above it all, I see a single balloon. It winks down at us from high in the sky, its long string dancing in the wind, floating ever-upwards. And as hard as it is to watch it disappear past the frame of the window, impossibly out of reach, there's a sweetness to this sorrow, as if he's soaring playfully away, buoyed by a sea of joyfully singing voices rising up from the streets below in celebration of life and of faith. And for a man who filled people with joy in the way my Grandpa always did, I can't think of a more fitting way to say good-bye.
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