“Will he die?”
“Six months minimum, if he’s lucky. The maximum? I couldn’t tell you that…”



She could recall, after all these years, asking that doctor. The girl decided that it was a stupid question to ask, even if she was only nine. Five years went by fast, and she watched people leave all the time anyway. Neighbors, friends, but she never thought her Grandfather would leave her.

Two years. Two years since his death, and it still makes her cry. Normally, the girl was good at handling death. Except she though more of it as a “Crossing”, in her opinion, death was something that could never be brought back. Death is a tree that got cut down, or a flower that withered. People don’t die. A person will live in your memories, and there’s always something there to remind you of them.

In her case, it was the paintings, She could touch the paint and feel where he pressured the brush, and where it was glided. She could touch the paint and remember watching him, silently. He had monster hands. Wide, bulky fingers. But they worked so calmly, so precise. People say that big things come in small packages, but this wasn’t the case.

What made her cry most was remembering how he would hold a dollar and have you try to catch it. When you failed, he would laugh, and give you the dollar anyway. She remembered calling down the laundry chute, to his workshop, that it was suppertime. She remembered going down to the basement, and sitting at the self-playing piano, singing with her cousins, and siblings, while her Grandfather led them in song. And oh, how those were the days.

And then there were the dark days. She remembered the exact brand of cigars he smoked. Swisher. She remembered the triple-bypass heart surgery. She remembered watching her Grandmother blend food into mush so he could eat. She remembered going to visit him at the hospitals, nursing homes, and soon after: Hospice. She remembered the holidays they checked him out, so he could be with the family. She remembered a specific birthday party for her cousin where he would cough everything he ate back onto a handkerchief. She remembered coming home from school, and at around four in the evening, getting a call from her aunt. September 25, 2006, at eleven that morning, her Grandfather was dead. The girl had expected it was a phone call from one of her friends, and she felt her heart sink. Her mother wasn’t home yet- And the girl had to tell her that he was dead. She cried for her her family for five minutes, but right after, she cried for her mom. She wasn’t going to take it very well.

A year and a half later, she was over his death. She’d done enough mourning, until her mom had let the cat out of the bag. She’d said that a few months before he died, her Grandfather had tried to kill himself. With a gun in his mouth, he failed, and ripped a hole in his esophagus. The moment she heard it, she knew why he always coughed food back up. It was going into his lungs. And that was how he died, wasn’t it? He was eating, and the food wouldn’t come up. And so he choked to death. When she finally let the thought process, she allowed herself to cry.

The cause for his attempt of suicide was from the pain medications. The hospitals, nursing homes, and everyone in between was mixing his meds. It had caused him to lose his mind. He couldn’t take it. The girl understood. She knew what that felt like.

Six months since she found out, she was back in school, completely accepting his crossing. She decided he had a good life. He’d never completed high school, but his mind was as sharp as ever until the very end (after all, even when he was high on drugs, he still beat her at all the puzzle games). She realized that the hate notes he wrote to his wife were a cry for help – for everything to end. If that was her, she’d want to die too. But something the girl never understood was why the doctors never tried to help. She still, to this day, does not trust any doctors. Pain medications, anti-depressants, sleeping pills? She refused to take them. She refused to let that happen to her. Just the thought was too much to bear…

“Hey, Summer?” The girl looked up from her tobacco worksheet that was last night’s homework. “That cross, you’re wearing. The brown one? I like it, where’d you get it?”
She opened her mouth for a minute, looking at the person in front of her desk. She brought a hand up to it and strokes the length of the wood, feeling the minuscule details that made it so perfect. “My…Grandfather carved it for me. Before he died,” she said.
“He was very talented.”
She smiled. “He is,” and as the person walked away, she shed a tear. Nothing was going to bring him back, but if it was the memories that kept his presence, it was fine with her.

It had been two years. Two years since he died. There was always an odd feeling in the air, which always made her paranoid. It was always when she thought about him. The girl had no doubts that the presence was her Grandfather, patting her head, and saying it was okay to miss him. She’d be with him again, one day, if it was or wasn’t her time. But this, this was her closure. Two years, and she finally had closure.