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Good
bye,” I said to Poppi, squeezing his
leather moccasin. The smell of leather.
His face was still, eyes open and
clean shaven. He clutched the wool
blanket with his shaking old hands. He
showed no response. He did not
recognize me as his youngest of seven
grandsons or as a person standing in the
room. Jazz was playing softly on the
old beige radio, a jumpy song, I was not
jumpy. This would be the last time I
would see him alive. It was hard to say
good-bye and deal with the fact that my
Grandfather was slowly dying from
Alzheimer’s disease. At least he was in
Maine. It was his favorite place to
be. It was where he would like to be
right now. He has lived up here for
many years with my Grandmother.
“Cory,
you are the first to hear this,” my Mom
said, coming out of the porch door with
the phone in her hand. “Poppi just
passed away.” I was not shocked,
startled or surprised. No sensation or
sadness. I shed no tears after Poppi’s
death. I had time to mourn when he was
declining. Now, I worried for my
Grandmother and how she was taking it.
The
LeBaron, Poppi’s last car. It was passed
down to my brother, his first car. This
resembled a passing of generations for
me. I have a lot of memories with that
car and Poppi. With just the smell of
it, I can recall a lot. This
convertible had leather interior. The
smell of leather. Poppi also loved
woods. Working with his hands, making
birdhouses and other things. He had
many machines, drills, saws and tools.
His favorite hobby. About a year ago,
it was declared that he could not drive
and the tools were off limits for his
own safety. The LeBaron rested in the
garage and the woodworking room was
locked.
My
parents knew that he was going to pass
away around the day that he did die. I
knew this too because the funeral had
already begun to be planned. The
funeral would be in Bath, Maine. That is
also where Poppi’s ashes would be
buried. All of my relatives on my Mom’s
side would be there, aunts, uncles and
cousins. I knew the funeral was going to
be very emotional.
To me,
seeing the funeral of my Grandfather
meant more to me than any test or exam.
I have always been told that school
comes first, but how can you compare
school with family. It is impossible,
an eternal debate. School is very
important. My first impression was, “A
funeral for someone happens once, no
more. School happens 180 times a year.”
My
parents disagreed. I had said good bye,
all that is left is tears, pain, and
many memories. Many memories, many that
are so vivid that I feel that I can talk
to Poppi and he listens to me. Many
memories, some that I can see Poppi
lying there with a disease that has no
cure. I felt that staying home was the
thing to do. I felt this way not only
because my parents, I felt this way
because I would be reminded of the final
moments and I could not do that again.
My
parents confronted me. They knew what
the answer was going to be but I knew
that they wanted me to say it, mean it,
and understand it. I told them my
decision and my Dad told me something.
He said, “I want you to write a little
thing that your Mother and I can bring
to the funeral so that we can share some
of your words.” It was a good idea but
it was hard to write. This took more
soul-searching for me than the actual
decision.
“So,”
I said, “how was the funeral?” “Well,
”my Mom said, “As soon as you walk
in..........”She talked about the
service. Since she is a florist, she
talked about every little flower
arrangement there. She also said the
trip up and back was tedious because
they had to pick up my cousin in New
York City. She said that she was crying
so much she could not read the paper I
wrote in front of everyone. My Dad read
it instead.
It had
touched me to hear that my words touched
people far away. I learned that when a
loved one passes away, it is best to
hold onto the memories that are
wonderful and alive. I can accept the
fact that Poppi died and I can always
remember his face and personality any
time I want. Though it will never be
the same without him, I can always
recall how it was, and be with him.
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