Some days I know that everyone was right when they said, “Time will heal the pain.” Other times I realize they didn’t know what they were talking about.
Having someone in your life who is such a strong force, so much a part of who you are and what you do, is wonderful. I was lucky to have him—we all were. But losing someone like that is beyond sorrow, it’s a loss that lays quietly in the back of your mind and the bottom of your heart, one that hits you hard again, years later, for reasons that surprise you.
Daddy died of complications from multiple myeloma on April 8, 1996, two days before little Sam turned two years old. Andrew was almost five and didn’t understand where Großvater had gone. He ran into his room the day after and hollered in his usual commanding voice, “Großvater, where are you? Are you hiding in the closet? Are you under the bed?”
What do you say to that? How do you tell this little boy that the man who held him so competently from the day he was born, who rolled up his sleeves in the delivery room in preparation for his birth (just in case the tardy physician didn’t show); who patiently walked him back and forth while he cried in colicky pain and his weary parents lay spent on the couch; who read to him, played with him, bounced him on his knees; who introduced him to milchreis, taught him how to whistle into a pen cap, and sternly lowered his eyebrow in occasional disapproval; who beamed in wicked, grandfatherly pride as he let him sip from a beer bottle; who helped bathe and put him to bed every Tuesday night and made sure his room was carefully set up to his liking when we moved into a new house: this man is gone, Andrew.
And yet, somehow he lives on. In our memories, in his sister’s smile, his son’s laugh, in his daughter’s eyes, and his granddaughter’s shiny, dark hair. He is in a Beethoven piano sonata and the warm aroma of pflaumenkuchen. He is there behind a discussion of epidemics or space telescopes and in the tipping of vanilla sugar into whipping cream. His voice is in the waves as they crash on a rocky Washington beach and his calm hand is in the touch of moss on a rainforest hike. His name comes up in conversation and we turn wistful and joyful at the same time. He was here with us for a while and we are lucky.
There are a few wonderful people in this world, in this life. You were certainly one of them, Dad.
Happy Birthday, I love you.
__________
I only met him a couple of times, but I never forgot him. He had such a gentle but unmistakable gravitas.
ReplyDeleteI cried a little for your loss and the loss of my own papa eight years ago. Thank you for this beautiful post.
--Nona
Oh my gosh, everything you describe and I'm left thinking that your father hasn't strayed too far--he's so much in Andrew!
ReplyDeleteAnd you, of course. Since the first time I met you, you've told tales of your lovely father. He's up there, with all the other grandpa's, making sure it all goes just a little bit smoother for us down here. I'm certain of it. :)
xoxo- anjelica
Lovely, lovely post about your father, Katrina. It brought tears to my eyes and made we wish I had met him. What a sweet tribute.
ReplyDeletePlus, your writing is lyrical and full of beautiful images. Keep up this blog, but also consider writing full length books (if you're not already)!
Cheryl Jenkins
Great post.
ReplyDeleteMy grand-father Adrien was my best friend. He died a few weeks before my arrival in the States, in April of 93. I owe him everything. From work ethics, to curiosity, to respect for others. He saved me as a teen. I looked up to the WWII vet, who walked from France to Poland, was liberated by the Russians in April 45, and who readily confessed that any time after 45 was bonus! He left school at age 8, yet he knew how to explain everything to me. I cry my eyes out every time I am by his tomb. He's my hero, and I named my son after him.