My grandfather died this morning after a long, slow spiral of deterioration that started the day my grandmother passed away. In the years that followed, his mind and body slipped in violent bursts to the point, that in the end, he had probably forgotten most of his life. Is this a blessing, or a curse? It is hard to tell. For the ones that are left behind, our memories are what freshen our grief; it is practically impossible to not replay one's memories of the deceased over and over again in the event of their death, as though doing so in the throes of sadness will more firmly seat those memories in our ever-eroding brains. For him, perhaps to die without real awareness and memory made it easier...we will never know.
As I think about him this day, it's funny what is clearest in my crowded thoughts: his smell, his twinkle, his hands. Foremost, his smell: salt, wood, and oil. I don't mean this in the way that retailers praise men's cologne; but his actual smell...like dusty salt, kept too long in the back of the cupboard; like wood that has been damp and warm in cycles for many years; like oil, a combination of mechanical oil and the smell of 3-day-unwashed hair. To me, it was strong, but never unpleasant, and always seemed strongest when hugging him, scraping his raspy cheek hairs on my face.
His twinkle was the gleam that would appear when smiling. It never appeared when he laughed; Grandpa always seemed a bit sheepish when laughing aloud. But when he smiled, his upper lip rose slightly, the corners of his mouth drew his lips apart, and then the twinkle in his eye would arrive, causing his hooded eyes to appear less stern and guarded, as though he giggled through his eyes.
His hands, when held, were fascinating. To look at them, you'd only see the years they'd spent as a carpenter, electrician, shop owner, mailman, and public servant. They were always slightly dirty-looking, even if they had just spent a half hour in the sink washing the dishes. His hands, when held, were always cool and dry, like blocks of wood that ought to have been splintered but instead had been worn smooth by time.
Many things are lost to me now, cursed as I am with a weak memory. Even should I forget these things, I know every time I hug my father I'll savor a touch of the scent and strength of his dad, my grandfather.
