Patriarch

I've been back in the U.S. for over a week now, and the first order of business (other than recovering from jet lag and eating lots of cheese) was a family reunion. And while the energy of this coming together was joyful, the reason for the occasion was my grandfather's memorial celebration and spreading of his ashes.

My grandfather's true gift and legacy was his understanding that, in the words of my uncle, water always seeks its own level. He was accepting and loved all of us unconditionally. He was involved in real estate and newspapers and lecturing at universities and advertising. He made important contributions to political advertising--his firm came up with the idea of the political bumper sticker and lawn sign as ways of increasing a candidate's exposure--and wrote a book on the subject. He wrote poetry and cared for my grandmother during her long illness, and was by her side until her very last breath. He wrote poems and had all kinds of girlfriends and was liberal with his flower purchases. We wrote to each other once a week during my senior year in college--a tradition that I wish we had continued.

He was a complete and utter optimist. He spent time in an orphanage when my great-grandmother, newly widowed, could not afford to care for her children. He spoke with fondness about his time in an orphanage, and told stories about difficult times with a positive slant.

I guess I'm surprised at how much I miss him, and how often he tends to appear in my thoughts. We all expected him to sail past 100. He was the picture of health all the way to the age of 90. During the past few years his health started to deteriorate, but none of us knew how sick he really was.

I spoke with him during his final lucid moments. I told him how much I loved him, he told me he was proud of me. He asked about how things were "over yonder," and I told him that I would always remember him, that I would tell my children all about him.

They just don't make 'em like him anymore. He had a wonderful life, a life that he loved, and he will be missed.

I wrote this poem and read it--while wearing one of his fabulous and colorful sport coats--before we buried his ashes under the apple tree where we buried my great-grandmother's--his mother's--ashes.

PATRIARCH

(For Grampsie--August 1st, 2009)

This moment is somehow impossible

A reflection of your impossible mortality

How is it that the plaid shape of your personality

The piercing blue of your kindness

The ebullient rumble of your belly laughs

The hearty handkerchiefs of your eccentricities

Are no longer here?

Your presence instead

Glides over the collected pool

Of our hearts in mourning, dark like water that has been thickened with night

Glides over all of us like the reflection of morning birds

Memories of you are light white pinpricks rippling the surface softly

And permanently

Your past actions continually shaping our present moments, our futures

Like ripples transforming into waves, lapping at the shoreline