Grandpa

A Requiem

I close my eyes.

 

When I open them I am 7 years old and I am screaming.

I am screaming with glee because I am being hurled by a giant man into the deep end of a pool in Mill Valley.
I love this feeling.

 

I close my eyes.

 

When I open them I am 11 years old and I am scared.
I am scared because I have angered the giant man and I am learning that there are limits even to his patience.
I will never push the boundaries of his patience again.

 

I close my eyes.

 

When I open them I am 15 years old and I am amazed.
I am amazed as I watch a sensitivity that I rarely see in my father regaling a story of the giant man.

He finishes and I am pretty sure that more than half of the room has watery eyes.
He kisses the giant man on the forehead.

 

I close my eyes.

When I open them I am 22 years old and I am cooking breakfast.
I am cooking breakfast for the giant man and his thin little wife.
We eat breakfast and talk and laugh.
It is one of the most pleasant moments I ever have with them.

 

I close my eyes.

 

When I open them I am 30 years old and I am sitting.

I am sitting with my fiance across from that same giant man, but his thin little wife is gone.

He is quite frail now, but he is very happy that we stopped in to visit on the way north to our wedding.

I hug him and kiss his forehead and tell him I love him before we leave to get back on the road.

 

I close my eyes.

When I open them I am 31 and I am crying.

I am crying into a pillow on my bed.
I am crying into this pillow because I have just hung up the phone.
I have just hung up the phone because I have just said goodbye to the giant man.

His voice was faint, but he still found time to remind me that Los Angeles “Is a bad place to be.”
He asks if my father is around and I am barely able to bring volume to my voice.

This is the last time I ever hear the giant man’s voice.

 

I close my eyes.