thanksgiving

The next morning, we must have been driving to the funeral home. My aunt drove while my cousins and brother sat quietly in our own thoughts or headphones. I was shaken from my reverie when my aunt called us all to here and now. She told us to keep remembering our grandfather, to keep his life living. She asked me to send her the family tree I’d been trying to dig up for a school assignment. I apologetically told her I was missing both Sido’s grandmothers; I’d never gotten the chance to ask him because he’d gone on a tangent about his father’s and grandfather’s lives. On the phone, he had sounded so happy and animated telling me his family history, my family history. I didn’t want to interrupt him to ask simply for his two grandmothers’ names. That phone call was the last time I talked to my grandfather. I like to think I told him I loved him at the end of the call. I don’t know if I did but I’d always had the feeling I did because I remember thinking I didn’t say that a lot and I don’t know why I’d said it then. Was it an involuntary goodbye? I always believed that phone call was God’s gift to me, as was the fact that I hadn’t gone to Mexico. God was saving me from the overwhelming guilt and pain I might have suffered because I hadn’t said goodbye to my grandfather when I last saw him in September before I left for my cousin’s wedding. And I can only imagine how I would have been reeling the morning after he died if I was actually in Mexico with him. But he was always so distant; I don’t know if I feel much of a difference, even now.
My aunt continued talking to us, asking us what we remembered about our grandfather. I did not want to answer this question. The only thing I could think to say was that he’d taught me to play solitaire and always smelled like the pipe he smoked. I felt so clichéd and inadequate, a terrible granddaughter. I don’t remember what my cousins said. My aunt started to cry as we spoke. She then asked us if we talked about him and we all assented that we did. But we didn’t really talk about him; he was our new found connection to the world no one wanted to explore – the afterlife. But my aunt kept questioning, asking what we talked about. Her voice was so hopeful, waiting for her nieces and nephews to please her, satisfy her in any way. My cousins and I looked at each other, each waiting to see who would speak first, spilling the words my aunt wouldn’t expect to hear. After a few second of silence, I spoke up. “Well, we talk about him and what happens to you after and what we remembered of him…” I trailed off, not making any sense in the first place, why bother to keep going? My aunt was crying in full by then and I still felt so inadequate. I’d failed somehow.
...
My grandfather lied quite peacefully, grey and drawn, waxy and completely still. Yet I kept waiting for him to stir, flutter his eyes, lift a hand, and sit up. To be alive. I stared so determinedly at his face, willing him with every fiber in my being to wake up. That’s all he seemed to me, asleep. My eyes were so focused on his face, making sure not to miss the twitch in his cheek, the crinkle of his brow. These small movements happened over and over again, in my mind, in my eyes, on his face. I could have sworn he moved. I so wanted it to be true. My aunts were crying, patting his hands, touching his face, leaning closely into him. I don’t know if I touched him. I think I brushed his sweater but I couldn’t get any closer. I was afraid I wouldn’t feel him breathing and all I would find was cold. If I didn’t touch his death, it wasn’t tangible. I don’t remember crying either, just watching and waiting. I waited with all my heart. I waited so long.

But it didn't matter to me whether he was alive, just that he wasn't dead.