Greeting a Farewell

         “Come on, Pap!  Wake up!”  Bernie sounded annoyed.
         Although I was definitely not the old man being spoken to, I snapped out of my daydream.  The soft beeping of the various machines had lulled me into a slight daze.  The blandness of the nursing home walls and the scent of hospital food worked in a nauseating combination to make my stomach churn.  I had also grown stiff, for the chair I sat in was hard and uncomfortable, but I had no desire to sit in the place next to the hospital chair.  I lifted my head and snapped back into reality.
         There my grandfather sat, reclined in his wheeled chair, his eyes squeezed shut in obstinacy.  Many visits he refused to open his eyes at all, and we spent at least three hours watching him sleep.  My aunt, Bernie, was rubbing the old man’s purple gnarled hands, trying to coax him to open his eyes.  A low mumbling came from the old man’s mouth, and his lips flapped about.  He hadn’t worn his dentures for quite some time now, an ominous sign that he might never be on solid food again.  The words were incoherent, but they had a fluid rhythm to it, as if he were reciting a prayer.  As usual, Bernie and my father listened intently, trying to make sense of the words.
         “He said something about the horses again today,” Bernie smiled, kneading the ancient man’s thick fingers.
         My father let out a light chuckle and a small smile spread across his face; he was obviously remembering something from their childhood.  “Did you get what he just said?”
         “I think he was just reciting another poem,” his sister replied.
         I was instantly reminded of the hot summer days when we would go to Pennsylvania to visit my grandfather, affectionately called “Pap Pap”.  He always sat in a swivel armchair in the kitchen, reading the newspaper with his trusty magnifying glass.  When someone walked in to the room, usually my mother, he would sing a nonsensical rhyme or old ditty and laugh as heartily as his weakening voice would allow.  We would always just smile and nod, because the old man had gone deaf and we didn’t want to give him any trouble.  I don’t think my grandfather ever uttered a serious word to me.  He had been on this planet for almost a century, and the chances of him telling me something I could actually understand were quickly dwindling.
         He spent almost 94 years on this Earth working the land.  He loved the dirt, the plants, the animals.  When he was a young adult, he had a farm with chickens, horses, and cows.  By the time I was born, he had been only involved with the tree nursery, and the old barn was full of rusty old farm equipment.  I specifically remember him clipping each and every one of his trees on his twenty acre farm by hand.  The old man was in terrific shape, and I always thought that he would just live forever.  His health quickly began to deteriorate when he fell on the farm one day.  He had been in medical care ever since.  First, it was just the hip, but then it became everything else.  His wife and daughter could no longer take care of him, even after trying desperately, so he had to go to the nursing home.  I didn’t know it at the time, but this was going to be the last time I would see him in this nursing home, the last time I would see him alive.
         The funeral home was a small house with overly fancy wallpaper and carpet.  The scent of a thousand and one flowers heavily perfumed the air.  It was a pleasant smell, but it meant only one thing- that someone was dead.  A box of tissue was placed on every surface, and the gloomy little house seemed to encourage tears. 
         I wasn’t sure if I was ready to see the body just yet.  Too bad.  As soon as we walked into the little house, the casket was right there.  It didn’t bother me at first; it looked as if Pap Pap was just sleeping.  I walked up to the casket and looked into the body’s face.  The face was covered in makeup, in order to give it a more lively glow.  The mouth had been stuffed, so that the cheeks looked fuller.  Mascara highlighted its sparse eyelashes.  This wasn’t Pap Pap.  It was simply a hollow shell that he had left behind on this earth.  If this wasn’t him, then why display it?  The hands were folded across the chest, and a rosary had been tucked into them.  There was no doubt in my mind that this man had gone to heaven.  An honest Catholic, he had been overly kind and generous toward anyone and everyone his entire life.  Then why wasn’t everyone happy for him?  If he had met the ultimate goal of all Catholics, then why were we not celebrating?
         “We cry for us,” Mom had said, wiping her red eyes.  She leaned into the casket and stroked the body’s hand.  “You can touch him if you want.  Do you want to touch him?”
         I hesitated.  Something about the idea filled me with horror and a strange excitement, but when else would I be able to?  I nodded my head and moved in toward Pap Pap’s body.  The hands were right there; all I had to do was reach out and touch one.  I moved in slowly, my clammy hands shaking.  The hand was cold, lifeless, unreal.  I had never felt anything like it in my life.  An aura of death hung around the body, and I finally realized what people meant by “cold as death”.  It was not the same as touching a person’s cold hand.  There was something far colder about this hand.  The warmth the soul gave the body was gone.  The wrinkles felt like chilled dough. 
         As soon as I touched the hand, my eyes welled with tears.  Selfish tears.  I had finally felt that he was gone.  And that is when I realized the reason for the crying- the simple fact that he was gone.  I wouldn’t see him on this earth again. 
         During the funeral mass, the moment they rolled in the closed casket, I cried uncontrollably.  Looking back on it, I cannot clearly say why.  I would not miss him, and I never did when he was alive.  I saw the man twice a year, and he could no longer communicate.  I had fond memories of the man, and that was all I needed.
         Pap Pap had taught me something important that day.  He had delivered his message to me, his piece of advice.  It was the same thing he told us when he was alive, only it was masked by jokes and songs.  Live faithfully, and you will have nothing to fear.  He had lived a long life, and it was a full one as well.  But the length of your life is not what is important.  What really matters is what you do with the time that you are given.  And he spent that time wisely.