Part I
A polished soul. I cherish how my grandpa aged. Describing who he became, can only come with the fortune of knowing who he had been, accompanied by the nostalgia of how he saw himself through his many shared memories. Remembering is somber, and it feels important to push through painful emotions with urgency because of a fear that the vividness of his memory will fade. A part of me dies with him now gone. A part of me fights to keep him alive. I feel the burden of carrying some tradition baring down on me, despite nothing really changing for me. Getting to know my grandpa's love came with knowing of the painful lessons teaching me to let him go. The love built up for him and from him was layered with every shared responsibility. My grandpa worked. If I wanted to spend time with him it was going to be more often working. This is how I'll start.
Ricardo woke up early for as long as I can remember. His profession required that he was out the door early, far before I was awake. And his bed covers were pulled up, no sign of him leaving anything messy. I felt this was an important aspect of what manhood meant. My grandpa began and ended his day with prayer. Kneeling in his tighty whities, his cotton briefs and white ribbed tank, he prayed in front of his night stand, head bowed. This is as vulnerable as I'd ever remember him.
I rarely saw him leave. As he drove by his childhood home in his truck, column shift changing gears, growling engine slowly warming up, I wonder what thoughts scrolled through his head. My grandpa's truck was an iconic black 69' Chevy, decorated with wood patterned side trim, and a custom lumber rack. He drove by his mother's house on his commute out into the city and on his return. I have to believe this would make him smile.
He left his body, lying on an emergency room's bed. His shirt was cut open, his chest red with signs of freshly reddened bruising from the fight his life, the damage left from intense chest compressions. His pants also unbuckled, and stomach bloated, visibily out of sorts, abnormally round. He appeared unconscious with a tube lodged in his mouth. This would be the worst and last I'd ever see him. This commute everything was left messy, unlike I'd known him to be, and only because this goodbye was out of his control. I buckled up his pants. I pulled up his sheets. I put my left hand on his, the other on the crown of his head, and kissed his warm forehead. I bowed my head and prayed. His work was done.
Richa was called home, November 9 th, freed from his body on a beautiful blue sky day. He was surrounded by loved ones and highly likely greeted in the cosmos by loved ones. And like his black work boots were polished and shiny, his soul, in my eyes, was polished too.
