Big Grandpa

I open the door and hear the expected bell ring. My children pour through the door and find the toys and video games and great uncle. I follow up the stairs and go left instead of right. I see who I am looking for. Hair—bright white—is tufting above his head. Eyes—the brightest, lightest blue—are hiding behind closed lids as he sleeps. Hands—soft and gnarled—are holding his latest knitting project. This is my grandpa, my children's Big Grandpa, my mom's dad.

I walk in and wake him up. His body is thinner—his shoulders bonier—than when I held him last year. There is so much less of his body this visit, but as his eyes open and lock on mine, I see that there is no loss of spirit there.

I can't talk much, because I'm sick and have little voice, but I can listen, and so that's what I do. He tells me stories. My kids come in and out of the room: greeting him, hugging him, kissing him. They stay for a story or two and then leave. I hear of his grandparents' courtship. I learn how his baby brother died. I listen to stories of his uncle who died in World War II. I soak it in, wondering if this will be the last time. I get out his favorite game, and we play three rounds of Othello. His mind still sets up the brilliant victories, but he no longer always remembers whether he is black or white and doesn't always see the traps he has set for me.

I want to visit Grandma's grave site, and he tells me he's too tired to go, but by the time it takes me to get my children out the door, he thinks he has found the energy. My cousin helps him to the car, and I follow my cousin-in-law over to the cemetery. We arrive in this quiet garden of memories and lives. My children and I help him out of the car and into his chair, and we very vigorously push him through the grass over to where his sweetheart was laid to rest. He's surrounded by family, and he tells a few more tales, and then it is time to say goodbye.

I return him home, wondering if this will be the last time. I pack up my kids and drive south. A few days later, we are together again. This time we are not in his home but staying in cabins in the Great Smoky Mountains. We take him to a magic show, which some of us found much too loud, but he was so happy to actually hear. We put him on a gondola attached to a ski lift, so he can float high above the mountains and see the vista and sky. We have a family variety show and sing along with him, yelling: "Ma, leave the dishes in the sink!"

Eventually it is time to say goodbye again. We grasp each other's arms, and he looks deeply in my eyes. I say I love you, and he says he loves me. I kiss his scratchy cheek, and he kisses mine. One last look, and it's goodbye, and I wonder will this be the last time?

It was the last time.

Benjamin Franklin Homer, Senior
December 21, 1924 to August 11, 2019

He never did look upon death with any degree of terror, because of his hope and views of Christ and the resurrection; therefore, death was swallowed up to him by the victory of Christ over it. 

Alma 27:28 (with minor edits made)