Even on his worst days, his demeanor doesn't change. How can I complain about anything when I know he will not?
Mr. G needs help getting into and out of bed each and everyday. He can't even bathe himself or relieve himself alone. Mr. G isn't as vibrant as he once was; six months ago. He looks one hundred. Six months ago, he looked his age; ninety two. They said he wouldn't make it. Funeral plans were drawn up in July. His children, his grandchildren, his few remaining living friends; they all came to his side to say goodbye.
I was there. Not that it matters. But there is something poignant maybe tragic when one of the remaining faces of a generation is about to pass.
He's not supposed to be here this Christmas. Yet, here is. Full of cheer. Goodwill. Life.
Mr. G is full of life.
Last night, he was humming along to Silent Night. It's his favorite Christmas carol, he says. My wife, God bless her soul, she made me listen to these hymns 12 hours a day each day of every December until her last breath. Sleep in heavenly peace, dear.
He does this thing where he starts speaking about her and mid-sentence, he starts speaking to her as if she is standing in the room with us. His eyes glisten from the newly formed tears and as one softly rolls down his cheek, he stops his story and just smiles.
Mr. G is excited about seeing her again.
He loves Christmas. He has 92 stories he loves to share but his favorites are the 45 he spent with her. Mrs. G, God bless her soul.
It takes him five minutes to get up from his favorite chair in his living room and walk into his kitchen. He refuses help. Then, he pours himself a tall glass of cold milk. This is all I'm allowed to drink during Christmas season. Mrs. G hated eggnog. You can't love Christmas unless you've felt the love of a woman. Sleep in heavenly peace, dear. We just let him talk. Each and every word that comes from his mouth is captivating. I wish he could talk forever, I think silently.
He's not supposed to be here. July was his expiration date. I even had my suit picked out for the burial.
Before putting his carton of milk back into the refrigerator, he laughs. Look at this goddamned date on this box. Predicting death. Telling me to hurry before this milk is no good. Who decides what date to stick on here anyway? Seems rather arbitrary. It's December 18th and this goddamned thing says Good til December 14th. Shows what they know.
We laugh at the irony. There's wisdom behind his short lived obscenity laced rant. He made his point.
Mr. G is vibrant these days. It's Christmas. His favorite time of year. He's not alone. His children, his grandchildren, and his very few remaining living friends visit him daily. He is soaking it all in. The warmth, the good cheer, the good will, the love. And Life.
This is probably his last Christmas.
Probably.
Sleep in heavenly peace, Sir. Whenever it's time.
