Life, Akimbo: Coming Home

Life goes on. Until, one day, it doesn't.

I've spent the last couple of weeks mourning the death of my grandfather. He was a spry and healthy 90 years old, cherished his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren deeply, treated his friends as his family, and strangers as his friends. He was an honorable man who received a medal for his bravery and service to his country when he was younger than I am today. A servant to his very core, he was known by his retirement village friends as The Chairman, not for his commandeering leadership, but for his unending devotion to his peers by setting up chairs and equipment for meetings, choir practice and classes. A play on words he no doubt found great joy in telling others about and giggling to himself as he told it. The man loved a good pun.

It was as sudden and unexpected a passing as it could be for a 90 year old man, which in many ways is a blessing. There was no prolonged illness or protracted suffering. Presumably, he passed in his sleep. I suppose we should all be so lucky.

Except, while you mourn, you don't feel so lucky. Mostly what you feel, what I feel, is deep engulfing sadness. Sadness over the conversations and laughter that will never again take place, sadness at the helplessness I feel as I watch my father's heart break, sadness that comes when I realize no matter how sad I get, it won't change the facts. Tears come uninvited at unexpected times. Going about the business of daily life sometimes feels an overwhelming and burdensome task.

In the midst of this emotional cloud, though, I keep returning to something that was said at his funeral: the deeper we mourn, the deeper we loved. And how clear it was to me that this man was loved and cherished by so many people. From the stories people told, to the gestures of goodwill from friends and family who rallied around us as we processed our grief, to the cards and letters we found as we began to sift through his belongings, the undeniable legacy he left with others was one of selflessness, laughter and love.

With that, I'll close my thoughts on his passing and leave you with the single most moving thing among his worldly possessions: the Western Union telegram announcing his homecoming to my grandmother after the end of World War II.