There are a lot of things I never thought I would do.
I never thought I would receive a perfect score on a written essay;
I never thought I would meet someone who drives me absolutely crazy, but takes my breath away;
I never thought I would find myself to be a physically active person;
I never thought I would have to see my Grandfather, one of the most warming and beautiful men I have ever met, lay before me, motionless, taking his final breaths; or, have my mother, one of the strongest women, cry in my arms. Never did I expect to know the curve of my Uncle’s tears, steaming down his face, or the sound or my Nanny cry as she beg the Lord for one more day.
Two days. 48 hours. 2880 minutes.
It is always enough time.
That Philosophy paper you need to write is due tomorrow, which is plenty of time; the interview you’ve been waiting for is in two days, which is plenty of time to prepare. Your loved one’s birthday is today, so you run out and get a cake after work.
Your loved one has only days left. That’s not enough; it isn’t even close.
I wish I was more smooth this morning. Truthfully, I should probably not even be writing. My mind is as unstructured as this piece of prose; but I can’t not. I need my outlet: writing. Yesterday, my Grandfather — Grampy — pasted away. A week ago, he was taken to the doctors, anticipating a cold or flu diagnoses and today he is gone.
If you knew my Grandfather, you would know that he was unlike anyone. Kind, thoughtful, caring, a true one of a kind. A voice so commanding and powerful, it could move nearly anyone.
I always loved his whistle. I remember sitting as a young girl, my feet curled on the coach, my body being eaten by the cushions. I would be alone on a Sunday morning, waiting to enjoy breakfast. Then, I would hear this sound, which became one of my favorite sounds: my grandfather’s whistle. He would sit in his chair, open the paper and sing that beautiful song. Watching him, I would listen, hoping that something in the paper would not distract him from the whistle. In those moments I remembered hoping that no news worthy enough for silence; no crossword puzzle hint challenging enough to warrant full concentration.
Before I knew it, he would look up to me – still whistling – and smile. I would giggle and look away. I never told him how much I loved his whistle. Now I wish he knew. I wish he knew that I would always watch him, listening to my all-time favorite song. I wish he knew how I would sit alone, practicing my whistling – to no avail – so I would always have the sound close to me. I wish he knew.
While he laid before me, taking his last breaths, I tried to whistle. Closing my eyes and touching his sheet, I tried to create that beautiful sound. Tears enabled me, but I refused to stop. Sadness rolled down my eyes, as the sound of air rushed past my lips and filled my eardrums. It did not matter to me that no beautiful sound came out because I was doing it for him and him alone; and I know he knew. A part of me thinks that even though he could not physically whistle with me that day, he too was whistling. A part of me believes he will always be with me, singing that beautiful song.
I love my Grandfather – my Grampy. I always will.
Rest in peace,
and never stop whistling a whistle for me.