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Maturity and mortality

The outpouring of support over the last week has been absolutely amazing. It has come from everywhere I can imagine. Flowers, cards, phone calls, visitors, kind words, hugs and handshakes, food — all of it appreciated. The amount of food is astounding. Old mountain staples and picnic standards like fried chicken, green beans, rolls, cole slaw, potato salad. I've eaten enough fried chicken over the last few days that the thought of it now makes me a bit queasy.

Arnold was very much like a father to me. He took us in during the first year of our marriage and gently kicked us out when the proper time for that came. He was there to loan out the odd tools often needed in the maintenance of a household, and if he had more than one, he gave them away freely without asking for anything in return. He was the strong and silent type I admire, and very much one who preferred to take care of things himself if it was within his abilities — but was never ashamed to call someone else when necessary. Most of all, I think his selfless generosity was his most admirable attribute.

It broke my heart to watch Katie react. She spent more time with him over the last few months than most of us, having stayed there to help out over the summer — and she was there with the rest of us when he left this life. She, at the age of twelve, has endured a pain I've yet to experience — the loss of a grandparent. I've been looking through pictures of the two of them together, and the look of sheer bliss on her face as she leans on his shoulder tells me it was not — and will not be — easy for her.

I must give her credit, though. At the wake she initially refused to go into the room to view him, and I sat with her for a good bit in the vestibule and later in one of the side rooms of the funeral home. At some point I told her this would be her last chance to see him, as we didn't intend for her to attend the next day's funeral services — and that although she'd likely regret her decision later, it was ultimately hers to make and I wouldn't pressure her into it if she didn't want to. Later in the evening I went to check on how she was doing, and she said, "Let's go see him." So we did.

I took her hand and we walked up to the casket through the throngs of people who'd turned out. We gazed at his body, ravaged by the pulmonary fibrosis which took his life, now at rest for eternity and no longer suffering. I touched his beard, asked if she wanted to do the same, and was told no. I then reached into my pocket, retrieving a small metal heart charm she wanted to deposit into the casket with him. I showed it to her, asked if she still wanted to do this or if she wanted me to do it for her. After a moment's thought, she asked that I do it — and I gently placed it under his right hand resting on his abdomen. She put her head on my shoulder and began to weep, and after leaving a totem of my own, we walked quietly out.

She later confessed she was glad she did this, and realized that she would indeed have regretted it had she not gone up to see him one last time.

She's also chosen to stay with her Granny some more this summer, despite it now being in the house where Papa died. I like to think this is going to do both of them some good, and that they'll each benefit from the other's company. I'm also very proud of Katie for making this decision on her own. On the evening he died, she insisted on coming home to be with us rather than face the night in the house where he lived and where she stayed with him during his final days. After giving it some thought, though, she's realized Granny still needs her — perhaps more than ever before — and has put her own misgivings aside for the sake of others.

At his wake, I was told that her choice to help out there this summer was a remarkable one for a twelve-year-old to make, marking the decision not of a girl, but of a responsible young lady. That she has chosen it again, despite the pain it must cause her, underscores her maturity. I suspect Papa would have made the same choice. She honors his memory in her actions, and in so doing, makes his legacy immortal.

Posted August 1, 2009 @ 19:14:18 EDT. 1 comment.

Comments on "Maturity and mortality":

Sounds like you and Martha are raising an exceptional young lady. Losing a grandparent is not easy -- one of my grandfathers was buried on my 17th birthday. But she will always have those precious memories of the time spent together. I cherish mine. My other grandfather passed when I was only 6 months old, so I have an empty drawer so to speak where those memories would be, making the others that much dearer.

# Posted by Lisa Cunningham on August 1, 2009 @ 23:11:55 EDT.

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