It's been one hell of month as I gazed blankly,(maybe just exhausted), at my iCal on my laptop. The appointments and obligations that fill up my calendar for the month of June are nothing extremely out of the ordinary - but from beginning to end, seem so far apart...
For the past few months my grandfather was struggling - fighting the true battle of his life. Finally, in a moment of amazing grace he took his last breath on June 14th. The amazing part was - his wife and four of his children were by his side. He wasn't alone. Despite all his agony in his final days, it's comforting to know he looked into my grandmother's eyes and held his childrens' hands before his final goodbye.
My mother asked me to write a poem for the funeral. She asked my brother to write something as well. I arranged travelling plans to Maryland, met up with my bro and his girlfriend, and prepped for the weight of what Monday or Tuesday may bring. As I wrote thoughts and jumbled ideas, as my bro pondered and collected more information - it was made clear that this simple poem and "something to say", became the Eulogy.
Wow. That's a lot of pressure.
I have a difficult time writing for family - at least, so I thought. I always think I'm too personal or too much of something. In 2004, my 21-year old cousin, whom was one of my best friends, was killed in a car accident by a drunk-driver. When I tried to write for him - everything seemed contrived and not genuine enough. I still beat myself up over the fact that I didn't read something from me at his funeral. I still kick myself because I think I gave up too easily and he deserved more from me. This experience taught me a lot....because I didn't want to be anything but strong for grandpop. Strong was the only way to be for the man who always believed in me...always.
I'm honored that I had a chance to speak, honored that my mother chose my brother and I to speak for her. She knew we would exemplify what everyone couldn't find the words to say.
I'm proud that I took the plunge this time. I was very hesitant - very hesitant - but I knew if my brother was up there with me, somehow, it would all come out perfectly. My brother spent the entire day typing this beautiful reflection on our grandfather - much like a great newspaper article (after all, he is a newspaper reporter!), while I spent time sitting on the train and in the front seat of bro's car, nibbling saltines and guzzling ginger ale, scribbling on a notepad.
I learned more from this experience than any other. It finaly sunk in that I hold back. I hold back when I feel my talents or whatever I have to offer is not of perfection. My mom read the rough draft, after I exasperated that it wasn't finished - please don't read it - it's not really a poem - it's too personal - blah blah blah. After the first few lines, my mother was crying. "This is perfect, Jessica. Don't change a thing" she said, "You're crazy". Now, my mother's like me - honest. She'll tell you exactly what she thinks. She won't be supportive just for the sake of being supportive. I believed her. And though it obviously need tweaking (it wasn't perfect), having that feedback meant SO MUCH.
Maybe I am crazy.
At the closing of a beautiful catholic mass, the priest nodded to my brother and I. We each ascended the wide marble steps to the podium. My brother spoke first. It was difficult to hold it together -for me- he wrote of a gift our grandfather gave him for one of his birthdays - A Merriem-Webster Dictionary. He reflected on what was written inside the front cover : "Keep on Keepin' On". He reflected on the fact that this simple saying was a driving force in grandpop's life and in the people's lives he touched - especially his family. Though my brother and I wrote separately, our words connected with different rhythm, different focus, but with the same intention - love.
I concluded the Eulogy with this poetic reflection:
I was once a little blonde girl in pigtails. At that time, I had no idea the life that this man built inside the walls I called "grandmom and grandpop's house". This was a place I loved to visit, but it was his smile most of all.
A pillar of support with just a hug or a wink. I knew just by looking at him, just by looking in those eyes that the world is worth the journey, and dreams can come true if I really try.
He was determined, strong-willed and a brave soul. Proud and stubborn still - but he would never falter. He was a family man who paved the way for generations to come. A passion; a zest for life that has inspired me to become the woman I am today.
80 years - and I have not seen them all, except in detailed stories over coffee at the kitchen table, except in pieces of memories in sepia toned and black and white photographs.
80 years - and I have not seen them all, but with modesty, with grace, he held onto those years as delicate as his own grandchild's hand.
Though I have not seen them all - I've seen much. I've watch him dance with my grandmother on New Year's Eve, read books to my brother and me - transporting our wandering imaginations. He was the grandpa who was always interested in who I was and who I was going to be.
With love, he would sometimes sneak me a midnight snack or a 10 dollar bill. See, with Henry, with grandpop, it was always be full, be happy, be young at heart. He knew life was fleeting. I take from his journey that the best things in life should happen today - and every day.
80 years - a long, good life - and that's an understatement. 80 years - and I smile for grandpop today. I smile because even as his eyes and will grew weary, he could always see the power behind a smile. The power of happiness, of beauty, and of love.
~J
