Jimmy Gilmour

Last impressions/memories of time spent with my grandfather the year he died.

We took a stroll around the block together. All I remember about the day is he was wearing his white v-neck undershirt, a old man's fedor and using a cane. I also remember that in 25 years, we had never taken a stroll together, just the two of us. It felt normal. It felt like we could have been doing this for years - but we never did, and he was dying.

The conversation was easy and benign. The silence seemed the same, neither feeling as though we had to make small talk along the way.

When we got back to the front steps, instead of going in we stopped and sat down at the top. I don't remember which one of us decided to stop but I think it was him - he wanted more time - I imagine dying makes someone very aware of time and I suspect he felt he had wasted a lot in his life.

I don't remember what we talked about and I don't remember how long we talked. I do remember when we stood up to go inside, it felt like it was time - no sense we should sit longer, no awkward sense that we may already have sat to long. It was just time to go in and be with the others.

I would see him one more time in the hospital. He looked frail, his skin sagged, his face was gaunt - then there were his hands - unchanged - his hands were still like anvils when he closed them. A Golden Glove contender before the second world war, he always had large hands and could knock a full grown man off his feet with a quick jab well into his 70's.

Unlike the sunny afternoon stroll several months earlier, I wasn't coming to spend time with him before he passed on. I was coming to say good-bye. I knew this visit would be the last. Much like the stroll around the block, we spent a considerable amount of time not talking. Except the silence wasn't as easy. It wasn't until later I came to believe he spent those last minutes with me trying to think of something to say - some piece of wisdom to pass on - some poignent observation about life to help me on my journey after he had left this earth.

And as he struggled to find the right words, I imagine he struggled to sum up what his experiences had been worth - what did his life mean, what was the moral of his story? I imagine he thought that if he could just find the right thing to pass to his grandson, in some small way it would somehow serve to validate his birth, life and death.

In the end, after a period of silence interupted by coughing fits producing thick, dark blood that my grandmother quickly wiped from his chin, I leaned in to tell him I loved him - much like the stroll a few months earlier, it was a first. I made sure to look him in the eyes as I said it - a semi-conscious act on my part to ensure we connected in that last moment. As I looked at him, my face still close, I saw his eyes focus on me through his thick glasses and I saw recognition, I saw calm, I saw love and sadness. In that moment I understood the meaning behind the expression; 'I see you'.

Then he said softly, "Don't forget me, Remember me, okay?"

Feeling some odd comfort in the notion I would easily fulfill this dying request, I plainly said I would.

And as I began to stand back upright - the hug transitioned to a hand shake, his grip was the same one I imagined him having as a young man.

It seemed at that moment he suddenly remembered he was supposed to leave me with words of wisdom to carry on with.

"Always do the right thing, my boy," he blurted with an air of 'stiff upper lip' - "Do the right thing," he said again, his voice trailing off slightly.

He leaned back into the inclined hospital bed. His eyes left mine and he stared blankly up at the ceiling as though I had already left the room. I couldn't tell if his demeanor was that of pain, resolve or uneasiness. A part of me wondered if he was trying to move past what he may have have felt was a failed moment - the true wisdom he wanted to impart not really coming to him when he wanted to summon it most.

Ultimately, I believe he just wanted to get past the pain and uneasiness of saying good-bye, both for him and for me.

Author's Note

I've been working on trying to capture moments in life and relay them in a way that people can relate to. Essentially I'm trying to capture those universal human moments.