My Turn: Grandchild links the past to the future

My father was a carpenter, a stocky man who earned his living with hammers and saws. The last time I saw him, though, he couldn’t hold a spoon in his hand.

Flat on his back in a hospital bed, his fingers were clasped at the waist like an infant’s. And he muttered incoherently, all the while staring up at me with an impish smile. He knew I belonged there but wasn’t sure why.f

It was the same look my granddaughter Rose gave me recently and it brought the scene to life again. I hadn’t thought of my father in that bed for a long time. He’d been there the better part of a year, without pain, surprised 86 years could gang up on a man so suddenly. That was the last image I had of him, and it embedded itself in my memory.

It didn’t resurface for decades. Not until Rosie was born and I leaned down into her crib. I thought of my father often, of course. But the memories I chose were happy ones. Since both my children had inherited his smile, sometimes he even came to life again during their infancy. The poignant image of his final days, however, remained unaltered. And buried in my past. It wasn’t simply the memory of a prolonged farewell that upset me. It was the chilling reminder that the human condition is finite. Having entered fatherhood at 40, I had no wish to dwell on mortality. Anyway, raising two children precluded such a luxury. I’d contemplate life and death later, I decided. Perhaps when the kids were out of the house.

But the universe disrupts even the best-laid plans, and before I could contemplate anything so profound, I’d become a grandfather. Not unexpectedly, to be sure, but rather late in life. Aware the prospects of being in church for Rosie’s wedding were slim, I grew more conscious of my mortality than ever. The arrival of a granddaughter, I reasoned, would only heighten that angst. Surprisingly, it had the opposite effect. The bedside image of my father gradually became less upsetting. His death, after all, was in the natural order of things. As was Rosie’s birth.

The insight had been a long time coming. Accepting it brought closure to his passing.

For the moment, Rosie is as helpless as my father was before he died. And no more coherent. The difference is, all that will change.

Her winsome murmurs are expressions of glee, not the confused of an old man. Ultimately, they will give way to words and sentences. And the impish smile she too inherited will erupt into laughter. The blueish grey eyes that implore me to entertain her will soon be enthralled by the endless wonders she’ll discover. Wonders we’ll share together.

Surely that is the most precious gift a grandchild can give: the chance to revisit the joys of childhood one last time. And with that chance, the wisdom to savor every intoxicating moment life’s journey has to offer.

My father had a long life and a blessed death. I’ve finally come to realize that. His journey was one most people would envy. Now it’s Rosie’s turn to take the journey. She has no way of knowing, of course, but it’s a ride she’ll never forget. And I get to tag along for part of it.

 Salvatore Gentile

 Northport