March 28, 2021
#05: When my grandfather passed away this week, all I could think about were pumpkin seeds.
For most of my life, I’ve had the privilege of knowing all four of my grandparents. Hell, I even had two of my great grandparents well into college. However, the last year has changed that: two of my them were taken. My grandmother peacefully passed in September of last year, and my grandfather, her husband, went earlier this week.
Almost a year ago, I published my first children’s book Mr. Ace and the Rainbow Bridge. In it, I fictionalize what happens after we pass on. While that story ends with its three main characters joining again in the afterlife, it is just that: a story. While I can’t be certain that something like that will happen, the opposite is also true. (I’m learning it often is with faith.) Even as I type these words it brings me comfort to know that as my grandfather moves on from this world, it is completely possible that he’s greeted by my grandmother who, impatiently waiting, asks, “What took you so long?”
What I am certain of is this: my grandfather is no longer here, and he’s left behind a litany of people whose lives were touched by him. What does that mean for us?
Over the last week, I, as we all do in times like these, spent many hours with family. We each spoke about our favorite stories and what my grandfather meant to us. We talked about how he took care of my grandmother at the end of her life. We talked about how he took in his brother-in-law at the end of his. We talked about how he served in the navy as a medic. However, even as I shared my favorite stories, all I could think about were pumpkin seeds.
Growing up, my family would often visit my grandparents’ house in Howard Beach, NY. My grandfather would always have a plastic container filled with salted pumpkin seeds next to his swivel chair in the basement. As my brothers and I watched TV there, I remember rapidly rotating in the chair while inhaling pumpkin seed after pumpkin seed.
When my grandfather passed away this week, all I could think about were pumpkin seeds. Why did my mind keep drifting back to this? The answer, I believe, lies in this poem:
What to do with this knowledge that our living is not guaranteed?
Perhaps one day you touch the young branch
of something beautiful. & it grows & grows
despite your birthdays & the death certificate,
& it one day shades the heads of something beautiful
or makes itself useful to the nest. Walk out
of your house, then, believing in this.
Nothing else matters.
All above us is the touching
of strangers & parrots,
some of them human,
some of them not human.
Listen to me. I am telling you
a true thing. This is the only kingdom.
The kingdom of touching;
the touches of the disappearing, things.
The poet Aracelis Girmay gets right to the point: meaningful connection to other living beings on this planet is what’s truly important. It’s what perpetuates the cycle of life. Here, in this plane of existence, nothing else matters.
By his example, my grandfather touched my life in many ways. He has shown me what it means to be a good husband, a dedicated worker, and a good man. By no means was he perfect, but I think that’s part of it too. Those values that he embodied live on in me, and they will live on in those that come after.
In the coming days, many of my family members will cling to artifacts that remind us of him. Whether those artifacts are physical like his beloved fishing pole or more ephemeral, that’s up to the person. For me, I’ll chew on some pumpkin seeds. It will bring me just a little closer to something he touched.
Goodbye, Grandpa. It is completely possible that we’ll see each other again.
Thanks for reading.