drop

without caution

set aside fabricated canopy

separation

limitation

receive the deluge

in downpour

flee from the thin guise

of protection

it seeks to

dull

deny

it is in the coursing drops

you are unbound

abandonment

  

flighty thoughts of youth abandoned

days of soaring weightless

gone

he leaves behind him any

sweet lingering

wafting fragrance of his art's
passion
left to die out in the cold
the decision
to trudge into the mundane
the tasteless
and the void
the killing compromise
of soul

something i want you to know...

     My Grandfather, elderly, ailing, and suffering from dementia was placed in a lovely assisted living facility.  We had no choice.  It was elegant.  Gracious.  I would visit him there, saddened to see his decline, his lack of recognition for his cherished great-grandchildren.  It was crushing the loss I felt long before his passing.  Someone so powerful, a force to be reckoned with was a mere shadow now.

     I called him 'Grand-pere', French for Grandfather.  He was French-Canadian and spoke only French until he was a grown man.  He was born in Maine, directly on the U.S./Canada border.  His first English was at the age of 21 when he joined the U.S. Army and the first word he learned was 'shit'.  To this day I smile at that.  He was gruff and sweet all at once.  Hot-tempered.  Honest.  He was who he was, with no apologies.

     There was another resident of the same assisted living home, a spry and beautiful soul named Hellon.  She would announce every day when I saw her that her parents aptly named her as she was indeed 'Hell on wheels'.  And then she would laugh.  A laugh that was eerily mine.  It was loud.  She laughed with gusto.  With her whole being she would laugh.  She was sarcastic sweetly.  Wise.  Hellon was like no one I'd ever met.

     Hellon would sit with me for as long as I could stay, before or after my visit with my Grandfather.  She told me stories of her life.  She opened her heart.  Shared herself.  Sometimes there were tears from laughter, often there were tears of loss and pain.  Sometimes there were just tears of something like acceptance.  Perhaps it was a sense of an impending end to a life well lived and well loved.  Always there was peace between us.

     She became a Grandmother I lacked.  A voice of wisdom and experience.  She was kind.  Caring.  Her honesty was sharp and cutting with eyes of love.

     Sitting with her became a bitter juxtaposition to my Grandfather's visits, though I spent my time with him eagerly.  The time was well spent at his chair or bedside,  but it was in silence largely.  Seldom there were bouts of cognizance and life behind his darkening eyes.  The stories he would manage to tell were always the same though and he would often confuse details.  He would easily become agitated at forgetting names or places.  He would sometimes laugh inappropriately or more likely just scowl.  His light was fading.  My heart sank.  Mourning his loss came too early because when he died I had no tears left.

     When I was a child, I spent a great deal of time with my grandparents.  I was the apple of my Grandfather's eye, or so I am told.  I could do no wrong at their house.  This was quite something since my grandfather wasn't necessarily the 'Father of the Year' to his own two children.  But he adored me.  They both spoiled me, not in a material fashion, but instead with love.  Unconditionally.  He would often receive letters from his mother, whom we called 'Ma Mere'.  He would read them to me, her words a jumbled mix of broken English and French.  He would patiently translate the words I didn't yet know.  I picked the language up easily and it stuck in my pre-school brain permanently.  Later on, I naturally studied French for 12 years in school.  It was home to me.  It was as though I could understand my Grandfather a little better, learning his tongue.  I wanted so much to keep him close.  He was indeed a strong personality; he was not someone for the faint of heart to grasp.  When he was angry he would curse in French, an event that was terrifying to the heart but beautiful to the ear.  No one but his granddaughter could assuage his anger as the years went on.  It was as though we shared some unspoken language altogether...

     My Grand-pere was a shell of himself when he died.  But he left treasured memories of  riding alongside him in his tractor trailer.  His enveloping way of sweeping me into his arms.  His smell.  His rough 5 o'clock shadow an hour after shaving.  His love of my homemade meals.  The way he would watch my children ride their bikes from his porch, you could sense the deep love and sheer affection in him for them.  His accent was thick and difficult for nearly everyone else to understand to his dying day.

     My Grandfather gave me one final gift.  One last kiss on his favorite Granddaughter's forehead: my time with Hellon.  His stay in that home gave me an opportunity I would have never had otherwise.  He gave me time to know and love a woman dear.  I came to know and love a kindred soul living life in future tense.  She was a beautiful and treasured window into my own reality.  She warms my soul to this day, though she is also gone now.  She loved me as only a Grandmother of the heart is able.