Thirty-Two Days Later
Its hard to believe its already been two months since my grandfather died. After 257 months, or so, of having him around, any fraction of time afterwards feels strangely different. I find myself thinking about all of the things he'll never know about me, sll of the things that happen in my life from his death forward.
It doesn't stop me from living my life, but it adds a somber note to any happy occassion. I know that more than anything, he wanted for me (and all of his family and friends) to be happy. The day before he died was the last time that he spoke to me (he didn;t verbally communicate at all the day of his death) and while his accent seemed strangely thick, and the cell phone connection wasn't helping, I was able to make out the last thing that he said to me, which he repeated twice.
"All the best. All the best."
All my life he told me that he wished for his grandchildren all of the best things in life, and on his death bed, that was the blessing of sorts that he gave to me. It's funny, as I type this, I actually feel proud that such a great man would give me a blessing such as that. I mean, for a grandfather to wish his grandson well is not so uncommon, But he wasn't just a grandfather to me; he was something more.
Anyone who really knows me knows that I am not a spiritual man. I'm not even really a religious man. I am a Jewish born atheist with delusions of agnosticism, that is to say, I come from a Jewish family, and I see no possible sense in God existing, but I want to believe it's possible anyway. I cling to my familial religion with a sense of heritage, not of faith, and while I may know more about Judaism than many practising Jews, I don't practise in the least. Honestly, I ought to be ashamed of just how many of the mitzvoh I break.
My Grandfather, though, was the religious figure in my life. Sure, I've had Rabbis I've admired, but they were just men. My grandfather, who practised Judaism more out of tradition, and actually used to regularly get into fights with his mother, back in Poland, because she wanted him to be more religious, was of a higher class, to me. If any one else had wished me well, I would have taken it as a courtesy, and appreciated it, but nothing more. When my grandfather said it, and emphasized it by repeating it, I almost believe that he had the power to make it come true, or at least could talk who ever had that power into it.
Anyway, I've lost my original train of thought, but that's not important. Sometimes I like to walk around aimlessly, when I'm feeling like this. I have no idea where I'm headed, and it doesn't matter; the point is just to walk. In the end, though, you always have to head back, and so I will.
In the past two months life has gone on. I took and aced a summer course that I hated, I met new people, and got back in touch with people I hadn't seen in a while. I've seen things happening to other people as well. Two months worth of events that my grandfather will never have known, some good, some bad.
But he had seventy years worth of events before I showed up, and he lived them. He didn't sit around thinking "I can't really start living until my grandson is born." Because that's the way life works.
I should be so lucky as to have seventy years worth of living without him. Then, when I die at an extremely old age, if it turns out I'm wrong like I want to be, and there is an afterlife, he and I can sit down and compare notes.
It doesn't stop me from living my life, but it adds a somber note to any happy occassion. I know that more than anything, he wanted for me (and all of his family and friends) to be happy. The day before he died was the last time that he spoke to me (he didn;t verbally communicate at all the day of his death) and while his accent seemed strangely thick, and the cell phone connection wasn't helping, I was able to make out the last thing that he said to me, which he repeated twice.
"All the best. All the best."
All my life he told me that he wished for his grandchildren all of the best things in life, and on his death bed, that was the blessing of sorts that he gave to me. It's funny, as I type this, I actually feel proud that such a great man would give me a blessing such as that. I mean, for a grandfather to wish his grandson well is not so uncommon, But he wasn't just a grandfather to me; he was something more.
Anyone who really knows me knows that I am not a spiritual man. I'm not even really a religious man. I am a Jewish born atheist with delusions of agnosticism, that is to say, I come from a Jewish family, and I see no possible sense in God existing, but I want to believe it's possible anyway. I cling to my familial religion with a sense of heritage, not of faith, and while I may know more about Judaism than many practising Jews, I don't practise in the least. Honestly, I ought to be ashamed of just how many of the mitzvoh I break.
My Grandfather, though, was the religious figure in my life. Sure, I've had Rabbis I've admired, but they were just men. My grandfather, who practised Judaism more out of tradition, and actually used to regularly get into fights with his mother, back in Poland, because she wanted him to be more religious, was of a higher class, to me. If any one else had wished me well, I would have taken it as a courtesy, and appreciated it, but nothing more. When my grandfather said it, and emphasized it by repeating it, I almost believe that he had the power to make it come true, or at least could talk who ever had that power into it.
Anyway, I've lost my original train of thought, but that's not important. Sometimes I like to walk around aimlessly, when I'm feeling like this. I have no idea where I'm headed, and it doesn't matter; the point is just to walk. In the end, though, you always have to head back, and so I will.
In the past two months life has gone on. I took and aced a summer course that I hated, I met new people, and got back in touch with people I hadn't seen in a while. I've seen things happening to other people as well. Two months worth of events that my grandfather will never have known, some good, some bad.
But he had seventy years worth of events before I showed up, and he lived them. He didn't sit around thinking "I can't really start living until my grandson is born." Because that's the way life works.
I should be so lucky as to have seventy years worth of living without him. Then, when I die at an extremely old age, if it turns out I'm wrong like I want to be, and there is an afterlife, he and I can sit down and compare notes.