As we age, we become more familiar with death. If we're lucky, we only run into it every now and then, but regardless, there it is. One thing I've noticed is that it's never easy to swallow. But it also seems to me that the seriousness of death occurs in stages. I think when you've got a close relationship to your grandparents, it makes it really difficult to lose them. So often, I think people look at the loss of a grandparent much differently than the loss of a younger loved one or friend. It makes sense though, because to die of old age is a pretty lucky way to go if you think about it.... As opposed to being taken too early thanks to a car accident or cancer or some bad stroke of fate. But in spite of knowing all of those things, I still find myself with tears in my eyes and a tightness in my throat whenever my thoughts settle back on my grandpa Marvin.
I keep wondering what it is that still causes such a palpable feeling of what's missing now that he's not here. People lose grandparents all the time. Sure, they miss them, but it's a part of life and life goes on and that person usually becomes a passing thought or conversation every now and then. But for whatever reason, that hasn't happened for me. I still think about those last days, and the good ones that came long before that, and I miss him... Just as much as I did in the days right after he left.
When it comes down to it, I think it's rare to come across another soul that you connect with so purely, the way I think I connected with him. I honestly don't know how else to explain it, other than to say that on some level, I think we were soul mates. We didn't really have a deep relationship where we marveled at some of life's bigger, tougher questions. I didn't call him when I was having a hard time at school or had my feelings hurt by a boy. But I never felt quite so content as when we'd sit on that back porch and eat watermelon in the summer. Or when I'd come home from college and sit with him on their tattered old couch with my head on his chest, listening to the gargled, slightly wheezing way he'd breathe.
His smile lit up when I'd go visit, even towards the end when his dementia seemed to occupy his mind more often than not. And to this day, whenever I see someone with a twinkle in his or her eye, I instantly think of him.
My grandpa was a simple man, and he wasn't. His later years were filled with an easy joy and quiet moments. His smile wasn't something anyone could easily forget... in fact, it was something people commented on over and over again at his funeral. It was a smile that made you feel warm, even if you hadn't seen him in years. He was sweet and gentle and kind. And a little mischievous mixed in for good measure. I never knew him to be anything other than those things, but as I've grown older I've come to understand that there was a time, before me, when he wasn't. I don't know that he was cruel, but he had a temper. He was a complicated man in a complicated relationship, conflicted internally but outwardly stubborn.
He wasn't perfect. But what I learned through life with grandpa is that sometimes it's better that way. That's what was so remarkable about the life he lived: In spite of the complexity and the dark days, the people who truly knew and loved him were better for having known him by the time he had to go. Sometimes an imperfect life trumps something that looks good on paper tenfold.
I think that's really all any of us can ask for, don't you? To live and to make mistakes and to learn and choose something better than before. To choose happiness and simplicity and joy and to thrive in it. Marvin wasn't perfect, but he was human and he was humble. And he died at the ripe old age of 90 as a man who was so incredibly loved. I'm not sure there will ever be a day when I don't miss him, but I'd take having known and loved him over the alternative any day of the week.
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