My father was a carpenter, a stocky man, who made his living with hammers and saws. But the last time I saw him, he couldn't hold a spoon in his hand.
He was lying on his back in the hospital bed, his fingers clasped at the waist like those of an infant. He mumbled incoherently, staring at me the whole time with an evil smile. He knew I belonged there but wasn't sure why
It was the same look my granddaughter Rose gave me recently that brought the scene to life again. I haven't thought about my father in this bed for a long time. He'd been there for the better part of a year, pain-free, surprised that 86 years could come together on a man so suddenly. That was the last picture I had of him, and it remained firmly in my memory.
It did not appear again for decades. Not until Rosie was born and curled up in her bed. I thought about my father a lot, of course. But the memories I chose were happy ones. Since my children have inherited his smile, he sometimes comes back to life during their childhood. But the poignant image of his final days remained unchanged. Buried in my past. It wasn't just the memory of the long goodbye that disturbed me. It was a chilling reminder that the human condition is finite. After I entered parenthood at age 40, I had no desire to talk about death. However, raising two children precluded such luxury. I decided to think about life and death later. Maybe when the kids were out of the house.
But the universe disrupts even the best laid plans, and before I could think about anything that deeply, I had become a grandfather. Not unexpectedly, certainly, but late in life. I realized that the odds of me attending church for Rosie's wedding were slim, and I became more aware of my own mortality than ever before. I saw that the arrival of a granddaughter would only increase this anxiety. Surprisingly, it had the opposite effect. The image of my father next to the bed gradually became less disturbing. His death, after all, was within the natural order of things. As was the birth of Rosie.
The insight has been a long time coming. Accepting this brought closure to his death.
Right now, Rosie is as helpless as my father was before he died. Not more coherent. The difference is that all of that will change.
Her charming mumbles are expressions of joy, not old man's bewilderment. Eventually, they will give way to words and sentences. And the evil smile you inherited will also turn into laughter. The gray-blue eyes you ask me to enjoy will soon be mesmerized by the endless wonders you will discover. Wonders we will share together.
Surely this is the most precious gift a grandchild can give: the opportunity to revisit the joys of childhood one last time. And with this opportunity, the wisdom to savor every intoxicating moment that life's journey has to offer.
My father lived a long life and died blessedly. I finally realized that. His journey was one that most people would envy. Now it's Rosie's turn to make the trip. She has no way of knowing, of course, but it's a trip she'll never forget. And I must accompany you for part of it.
Salvatore Gentile
North port
