The Passage of Time

Grandma and Grandpa

22 years ago today, my Grandfather died.

I woke up that morning to find my mother asleep on the couch.  She had not been there the night before; she’d gone to my grandparents’ house, as she had many nights, because Grandpa’s fever was high and it might be his last.  

My mom was asleep on the couch and my dad stood in front of the fireplace, watching her sleep.  He told us.  My mom is usually the one to do the “parenting,” especially the emotional stuff, but my dad took it that morning.  

We went to grandma and grandpa’s house.  Nothing felt real.  The absurdity of someone disappearing from your life– your mind and body resist it.  This isn’t real, our brain seems to tell us.  Almost every time this happens, it’s followed by waking up in my bed.  But death is the nightmare you don’t wake up from.

Everyone was there.  Wandering through the house like zombies, we looked at each other like broken dolls.  A strange smile– Hello, I am trying to comfort and I love you but the world isn’t real right now and are we really here?  

I went up to his bedroom, searching for the truth.  It’s as if I was daring the world to hit me.  Do it.  I dare you.  The hospital bed was gone.  It left a bright spot of plush carpet that was surrounded by a ring of worn carpet from visitors, family, and caretakers around his bed.

I stared at the bright spot of carpet and sat on my grandmother’s bed.  I looked in the mirror; my face was contorted and red and swollen and wet.  I could hear people looking for me, but I stayed there.  I stared at my reflection; it was the most real and artificial moment I have ever experienced.

Someone peeked through the doorway and found me.  They didn’t say anything and went back to the kitchen.  

Everyone tells you that death is hard. That love is hard.  That grief is hard.  

But they don’t tell you that it changes your life.  It breaks you in a way that makes you forever stronger and weaker, a spiritual wound like Jacob.  It’s make and break.  

After the funeral, when people silently stand around, committing themselves to carrying on the beautiful lights of those lost, we all quietly agree to become better people.

Twenty years later, I’ve found a way to make sweet honey out of pain.  Knowing how important John Kiely was to the world, I knew there were parts of him that I needed to carry forward.  20 years later, my life is changed.  

But I still wish that all of my begging with God had worked.  I still wish he were here.  I would still hold the secret and never tell a soul about the miracle, if only God would work it.  I can try to look on the bright side and see how a candle, held above, lights all below.  

But I just want to get closer and feel its warmth.