School Days . . .

My students always complain that I don't do anything they do (this is kinda the point of being the teacher) but I was beginning to feel a little bad, plus I have had this in my mind for a bit and decided it fit perfectly in with my unit on memoirs (personal memories). My students actually did a pretty good job on this assignment, but instead of sharing their work, I will share my own! Here is my own personal memoir . . . get a tissue Mom!

Is It Just Me?

Is it just me or do you get more beautiful every time I see you?

I’m pretty sure it was just him, and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to answer, it was more of a statement than a question. But I always answered, “Nooo, Grandpa!” He would say that yes, of course I had gotten more beautiful and he would place his strong, warm hands on both of my cheeks and kiss me on the nose. His scruffy beard would scratch but I wouldn’t move, nothing was more reassuring than this moment. He had been saying this to me ever since I can remember. I can’t remember a time during my youth when he didn’t say it. Whether I saw him two days in a row or not for a few months at a time, this conversation would always take place. I waited for it. It was a moment between a grandfather and his first-born granddaughter. It was a moment he could have shared with all of his granddaughters, but in my mind, it was shared with only me. I can’t recall the first time he said it to me, but I can specifically recall the last.

My sister and I had rushed back to Portland after learning he and my grandmother had finally been allowed to return from Spain. He had been feeling better; they had let him fly halfway across the world. He wasn’t better though and a few hours after arriving home, he was back in the hospital. Meg and I walked into the hospital room, the smell of antiseptic glaring. He was lying in the bed, the smallest I had ever seen him. For a man who had always been strong and athletic, someone who could carry all eight of his grandkids on his back, he looked as if I could easily throw him over my shoulder and carry him. My dad had told me he had lost weight, told me he was sick, but I had never seen my grandpa have so much as a cold, so this was a shock. Without a second thought I went to his bedside and without hesitation our conversation took place,

Is it just me or are you more beautiful every time I see you?
I responded as usual with a laugh, a shake of the head, but this time, tears welled in my eyes. He took my face in his hands, surprisingly just as strong as I remembered. Kissed my nose and tickled my cheek with his scratchy beard. Perfectly normal. Yes, all perfectly normal, besides my aunts crying behind me while my grandpa stated very simply that he was dying.

A few months later I saw him again. He had refused to attend Thanksgiving. We had all begged him to change his mind. Please come to Thanksgiving. Please come. He knew as well as we did that this would be his last holiday and the pain of seeing everyone together, knowing this would be the last time, was too much for him. So, we made trips. Luckily, my grandparents lived a few blocks away, so several small groups made the trip to bring him food and chat. I was looking forward to our conversation. I was waiting for the moment . . .

Is it just me or do you get more beautiful every time I see you? You do, you do get more beautiful.
I wanted it to be the same. The consistency of the conversation, the reassurance of his strong hands, his scratchy beard and the normalcy of our shared moment. I waited.
Although he was still laughing and smiling, he was tired. He could barely eat the turkey and mashed potatoes. He listened as we spoke to him, told him our stories, tried to pretend it was going to be ok. It could have been to painful to make a point of saying it for last time, it could have been that there were too many people at a close proximity, or it could have just slipped his mind – his thoughts, mind you, were a little preoccupied. Whatever the reason, he didn’t say it. He never said it again. My sister called the night before my Colonial History final. She broke the news and I don’t think I stopped crying until the next morning. I took my final with huge sunglasses on and eyes so swollen I could hardly see what I was writing.

A few weeks later we all reunited for Christmas Eve – the first without him. Without skipping a beat, my Uncle Jon came to greet me, taking my cheeks in both of his hands he said . . ..