Grandpa

My last grandparent passed away this week. He was tired of his body and ready to find out what comes next. Many emotions surface when a loved one dies, and you don’t know ahead of time what those will look like. Because I’ve had living grandparents well into my adult life, it’s like a chapter in history has closed. The adventures of childhood were largely wrapped up in family time with my nearby grandparents and road trips to visit my distant grandparents. While even one remained alive, those memories still felt re-creatable (in some way). Now, a historical anchor seems to be missing. The last remaining patriarch, the one who survived more than any of the rest of us—a harsh upbringing, the Great Depression, World War II, the loss of friends, family, and his wife—there’s a grounding and security in knowing that person is still around. I didn’t realize it until this morning. Grandparents are a comfort just because they’ve lived through so much for so long, in Grandpa C’s case, nearly 96 years. I don’t know how to describe it, other than we (our family) feel a little less attached to the planet because the one who lived here longest has let go. Our roots are shaken, because they no longer reach as deeply. I don’t know that it is specifically because of grandpa, or because of the station he held, the position in our family tree. He grew in love and caring as the years softened his heart, his mind remained sharp until the end, and he was bid farewell with an American flag draped over his body as Taps played in the VA hospice ward where he said goodbye to this world and all its troubles.