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would be dark soon, and people were expecting me at the
wake. The funeral had been pleasant enough, given the circumstances
'my mother was obviously distraught' but everyone had agreed
in whispers that it was all for the best, and that he had
suffered long enough. Now, as had become an all too familiar
practice in my family of late, the entire herd would head
over to the house for the wake to graze and drink far too
much whisky. They would reminisce for hours in smoke filled
rooms, forget how much closer their own end was fast approaching,
and confuse stories of this dearly departed soul with a
hundred other dearly departed lost souls that had expired
weeks, months and years ago. The prospect of such frivolity
wasn't especially enticing. No, today, they could carry
on without me. I wanted to open the cigar box.
Rusty
hinges squeaked open and I surveyed the contents within.
A yellowed and fading handwritten note offered:
 ...For
Andrew, my beloved Grandson, my lifetime of memories....
Beneath the note lay four objects, each wrapped in a separate
white handkerchief. A small shard of orange and blue stained
glass, a United States Marine Corps tie clip, an empty book
of matches from a place called 'The Herald's Inn' in Buffalo,
New York with the inscription 'Sarah Tobias' on the inner
leaf, and a gold ring encrusted with a single diamond. On
either side of the diamond were two empty sockets where
other stones must have once been in place. The contents
of this box, then, were all that were left to me by a man
I never knew.
I
had, of course, met my grandfather, and I 'knew' him in
a sense, but distances from one country to another and the
kind of grief between families that always seems to grow
from nothing and yet last an eternity meant that I met him
but twice in my life. At the age of nine, over a period
of but a week, I stayed with my grandfather in his home,
but in those few days, amid the rush of so many other relatives
and well'wishers, he was lost to me in the glut and hurry
of new faces and experiences. I recall his enormous hands,
one always wrapped tightly around a beer bottle, the other
consistently holding a fat, moist cigar. He had a healthy
roar of a laugh, but this was reserved for late nights and
old friends that made my grandmother scowl. Always tanned
as he frequently spent time out on the boat fishing, I slipped
it to him one afternoon that I loved octopus 'though I never
did, and cannot understand why I made this claim' and he
bought me kilos of the stuff. Large, oversized tentacles
sat in a wet paper bag at the back of his refrigerator for
the entire week I was there, left untouched and gradually
sharing their aroma with the rest of the neighborhood.
My
last evening in the house, well after my grandmother had
sent me to bed with a glass of milk, I awoke to the familiar
midnight roars of laughter. Mindful not to wake my mother,
I slowly crept down the stairs through the living room and
toward the kitchen door, where thin slivers of orange light
crept through from the other side and cast eerie shadows
across the room. Tip'toeing a little closer, I carefully
placed my ear near the door and listened to the voices on
the other side. From within the kitchen, my grandfather
was in full flight. Obviously well liquored up and using
coarser language than I had ever heard in any late'night
movie, he was telling story after story of his life, of
his escapades, his conquests and his defeats to an equally
drunken, willing recipient of his tales. His partner could
manage only the odd slurred comment of ...You're kidding!...
...You don't say!... and ...Tell me you're joking!... as
he fought back tears of laughter, slapping incessantly at
his thigh in excitement. Spurred on by the encouragement,
with sip after sip from his bottle, my grandfather poured
out a million memories and revelations onto the kitchen
table. In fifteen minutes, hidden behind the door, I took
in more of places like Las Vegas and Iwo Jima, beautiful,
willing women, lost bets and seized opportunities than I
could digest, let alone understand. And so it was, suspiciously
sneaking a listen at secret adult conversations, that I
hardly even heard my Aunt creep up behind me and, with a
giggle, ask, ...What are you doing there in the corner?...
To
say I jumped is something of an understatement. I threw
myself against the wall in a horrid mix of fright and deep'red
embarrassment, and began whispering apology after apology
as she simply stood and stared at me with a wry smile, hands
on hips and shaking her head in amusement. Eventually she
managed to calm me down and reassured me, ...It's okay,
Andrew, it's okay. But don't be ashamed to go in there and
listen. These are your family stories. It's important you
hear them....
With
a wink and another giggle she was gone. Momentarily the
two inebriated 
fellows in the kitchen stopped for a second and took in
the disturbance next door, until I heard my grandfather
swig another gulp of beer and continue on with the fast'paced
tale. Alone again in the living room, still unable to move
from my frozen position against the wall, I stood for what
felt like an eternity and contemplated my Aunt's words.
I thought about entering the kitchen and pulling up a stool.
I fidgeted and mulled over the possibility for a while longer,
but I had lost my bravado and gumption, and I quickly raced
upstairs and leapt back into bed, eventually falling to
sleep as the howls and laughter continued in the room below.
Given that I was but nine years of age, one might be forgiven
for lost opportunities. I'm not so sure anymore.
When
I was twenty'three I took a seat at my grandfather's side,
excited but also full of apprehension. He was no longer
in his home, but in the proverbial 'home'. My grandmother
had succumbed a few years before to cancer and now, ailing,
my grandfather had been placed into the care of a retirement
home. But his loss, his illness, it mattered little to me,
for now, with a whole month at hand, I planned to catch
up on all those stories I had contemplated for thirteen
years. Unfinished stories. Previously withheld revelations.
These pieces of information were important to me, I hungered
for them, and now, I had come to collect. I had come to
finally really get to know my grandfather, who he was, and
what he had done. I studied my grandfather's face. He looked
upon me with soft, warm eyes, but there was no recognition
in his vacant, kindly stare. I reintroduced myself and he
calmly nodded. Extending a weak, limp hand, naked without
its cigar companion, we greeted each other.
...How are you, Grandpa?...
...Well, well... I'm just a little tired today, is all....
He turned and faced a blank television screen. ...Nothing's
on, today, I'm afraid....
...How do you like it here?... I asked. My grandfather remained
fixated on the empty television screen, distracted only
briefly by a young nurse who interrupted his thoughts to
offer him some medication and a glass of water. He patiently
took a large white pill into his mouth, smiled at the nurse,
and returned to the screen.
...How do you like it here, Grandpa? Everything alright?...
Startled, he turned to face me. A frown quickly vanished
into a smile.
...Oh, hello,... he whispered. ...I wasn't expecting you
here....
For
the next three weeks I visited my grandfather every day.
I read to him, held his hand, took him for walks, and for
hours, long, endless hours, we talked about nothing.
I
was just too late.
Occasionally
I tried to prompt him. I asked him, ...What do you think
of Iwo Jima?... ...Tell me about your father..., ...How
did you first meet Grandma?... But each question was answered
with bewildered stares followed by cryptic, incoherent
sentences that would invariably, eventually, be interrupted
by another visit from a nurse with more medication. I
knew very little about this old man. He had been estranged
from his only son now for over thirty years. He was a
United States Marine, active in World War Two, operator
of a bar in Buffalo, New York, and a man who loved the
outdoors and spending long Sundays on his boat, fishing.
These splices of information told me nothing substantial
of the character, the true nature of my grandfather. Still,
I knew well enough that he deserved better than sitting
out the remainder of his days confined to a wheelchair,
soiled and medicated, confused and alone, not even aware
of the fact that he had been set aside to die.
 The
last time I saw my grandfather I arrived, as I always
did, to his bedroom at about nine in the morning. As I
walked down the long, empty hallways of the home and approached
his room, I noticed a slight, faint tapping sound, becoming
louder and clearer with each step forward. By the time
I reached for the door to my grandfather's room I realised
the tapping came from within. I entered, and found my
grandfather lying on the floor beside his bed, tears streaming
down his face, messed in his own filth, tapping at the
radiator with his wooden cane. I instantly rushed to his
aid, but as frail and withered as he was, he was a dead
weight, and I struggled and fought to lift him back on
the bed. Frantically, I pounded my fist down on the emergency
call button and waited for a nurse to arrive. I returned
to my grandfather's side, took him by the hand and reassured
him he would be fine. But gone was the blank stare. Gone
was the vacant look. My grandfather squeezed my hand tight,
suppressed every pain and agony that crawled through his
body and, summoning up every precious piece of energy
within him, he leaned into me. Shaking, his eyes fixed
upon mine with a glare I hadn't seen in thirteen years.
Fighting back tears, he whispered, ...Look what's happened
to me! Look what's happened to me!...
As
nurses rushed into the room they cleared me out into the
corridor and I made way for a multitude of machines, tubes
and specialists in white coats. My grandfather, who had
fallen to the ground and remained there for some five
hours of misery, fully aware of his desperate plight and
decline as a man, continued to stare at me with such a
determination, such a resolve as I'd never seen. Such
a sad, sad resolve, that I could not stand to bear witness
to his tragedy. I never visited him again.
For
years now, since I last saw my grandfather, I've cursed
my parents for taking
me so far away from my roots such a long time ago, for
depriving me of my family connections. But the blame does
not lie with them. Nor can I blame the liquor, the disease,
the doctors or the weak heart that eventually took my
grandfather's life. In truth, there is no one to blame
for my loss, nor the loss my children have now suffered
for the stories they can never be told. There just weren't
enough of those precious minutes, hours and days for me
to learn it all.
And
so it is, that I now find myself sitting in my car, parked
at the side of the road on a glum, rainy evening, as my
family waits for my arrival at the wake. Looking into
an old cigar box left to me in my grandfather's will I
see a small shard of stained glass, a United States Marine
Corps tie clip, an empty book of matches, and a gold ring
encrusted with a single diamond. The box contains a lifetime
of memories, and though they have value to me, though
they were left to me with purpose in mind, their meaning,
their significance, is unknown.
I
can't help but think that the answers lie back many years,
in the middle of another smoke filled, late, late night,
and in the words of a happy, proud man, seated at the
head of his kitchen table, who has had a little too much
to drink.
That
I might have another chance to take a seat at that table.
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