My Grandfather Taught Me
My grandfather taught me to have high expectations when it comes to love, because even when your older and your feet start hurting after a long day, and your hair loses its shine, and your kids grow up and move to other states and eachother is all that you have left, the words “I love you” should never change.
And the promises you made years ago in that small church in Natrona, Pennsylvania should still remain unbroken— even when money’s tight and there's six of you under one small roof. You’ll make it work. Even though money’s tight, you’ll find a way to pay for your children to go to college because when they grow up and move to other states you want more for them than what you had. What you had when you were young and your mother taught you to keep the pantry full, because she wanted more for you than scraping together meals, because she didn’t leave her life in Poland behind just to see you starve—so you make it work. Even when you watch your kids leave one by one and move away to other states, and start families of their own and the only time you hear their voice is over the phone, it's alright because even though they’re far away, the fact that they love you will never change. Even when the doctor says you have alzeheimers and it’s uncertain how long you have left before you start forgetting, but the world moves on and suddenly it’s December— and your kids are grown up now and they’re coming home for Christmas.
It’s been years since your diagnosis, and when they walk through the door you want to hug them but you don’t know why, because you're forgetting their faces and their names and what you used to cook them for dinner when they were young and came home from school—but they walk in one by one and hug you anyway.
Your kids bake Christmas cookies—your recipe—in the kitchen behind you, laughing because they can barely read your fading handwriting off the recipe card. And the TV is on and Taladega Nights is playing in the background and your granddaughter is in your lap, and you’re humming a song and you can’t remember what it’s called anymore—or any of the words, and even on good days you can’t carry a tune, but it’s okay because she doesn’t mind. Then the second time she see’s you she’s 8 years older, and a few feet taller, and you won’t meet her eyes because you don’t know who she is. But it’s okay, because she doesn’t mind and she hugs you anyways, and picks up the sticks in your backyard because her grandfather’s feet hurt and he’s tired.
He’s tired but he’s always there for you, like when he grabs your hand and helps you into the car and takes everyone to an Eat N’ Park Diner, and you can’t figure out why but everyone there knows your name, and you sit silently eating the bananas foster french toast that the waiter brought over before anyone had to ask. The man sitting next to you puts down his lukewarm coffee and reaches over your plate and cuts your food into pieces, and you can’t remember the promises you made to him in that church all those years ago, but he seems nice enough, and says “I love you” all the time, even though you don’t always say it back because you don’t say much of anything anymore. But he knows you love him back—even if you keep forgetting. Even when you wake up scared because he’s a stranger next to you. Even though your medication meant that your glossy red hair fell out in patches a long time ago—he still helps you to the bathroom, and watches TV while you stare at the wall in the floral chair you were so excited to pick out. He still says “I love you”.
Then two years later, your son puts down the phone, and tells your granddaughter that you’re gone, and she can’t cry because she didn’t know you that well, and she wants to be strong for her father who’s trying desperately to hold it together, because he always does, because you taught him how to—and you’re gone now, and the man who used to cut up your french toast misses you, because you were his purpose, and he never stopped saying “I love you” even when he looked into your cloudy eyes and couldn’t find you in there. And without you time passes too slowly, and no one needs him anymore to help them into cars, or to the bathroom, but he calls your kids and tells them that he’s doing good.
But it’s been three months, and the pain of losing you never left and maybe it never will—but he’s old now and he has pains of his own, and he’s so tired, and you don’t need him anymore. His sickness came on so fast—and he’s so tired, so he just lets go. And now your ashes are together and in a box above your granddaughter's garage because her father hasn’t been able to get the whole family together yet, because they’re all grown up and live in different states. But everytime I’m in the garage looking for my soccer ball, I think about you, and I think about my grandfather, and how he never stopped loving you.
