Funny thing, time. On one hand, we often have too much of it at our disposal. On the other, we never have enough for the things that matter - and we only realize what those are when we're left clinging to hours, minutes, seconds. When I was in university, I spent so much time miserable at being away from home that I missed out on what could have been the best years of my life. Later on, I became so "busy" that I skipped out on family functions, knowing that there was always another event around the corner that I could use to catch up. It was always tomorrow with me.
My grandfather, on the other hand, was always at the right place at the right time. Meticulous in his documentation of debits, credits, appointments, phone numbers and all manner of things that struck his fancy, you could always count on a quick, über specific response to almost any question you might have. Was the tip at dinner last night ten percent or twenty? A quick check of his "little black book" and even faster backwards math would tell him it was nineteen, since we decided to round it out. Where did he last fill up on gas? That would be pump #4 at the gas station just down the road from his house. Even a simple question of what the time was would garner an answer backed by Grandpa consulting his digital, almost neo-scientific watch - he would never give a rounded number like 2:30 if the time was in fact 2:28 or 2:31, and depending on the circumstances you'd get the chronology to the second. I'm sure that if I had been more like him this morning I would have not only been at his hospital bedside but would have paid attention to the clock. Sometime between 5:50 and 6:00 this morning, my grandfather's internal timepiece stopped, and it was not anyone's power nor wish to try and re-wind it.
As much of a shock as it was, I'm almost ashamed to admit that not a single time during his illness was I really sad. Grandpa always did things with expedience and at the best possible time - including this. He waited until after Father's Day passed and he knew my uncle and his sister were on their way before finally allowing his body to stop fighting. In a way, I feel horrible that out of all the worthy people in his life, I was the last one to speak with him. I got one last "hi" the one and only time I went to see him - yesterday, for Father's Day. I will never forget how hollow he looked on that hospital bed, but at the same time I'm almost glad that I didn't recognize him except for the pale band of skin that had been covered by his watch for almost 60 years. The only regret I have is that I didn't have my camera yesterday to document that epically infamous watch tan, by the time I saw his body today it had all faded away. The last remaining piece of him had faded away. It was then that I really knew he was gone. I was fortunate enough to get a photo of that arm, his hand still bearing his wedding ring, and I hope my sister can do her magic with it art wise and transform it into a living memory. My Grandma is letting me keep his beloved timepiece as well - she saved it for me since she knew how much it meant to my memory of him. He will never be forgotten.
Around the time he first got sick, I was clearing out old emails from my archive and came across a file of notes from Grandpa, dating back to the years I was at Carleton. As old as he was, Grandpa was still incredibly tech-savvy, and probably the only grandparent I know who was actively on Facebook and the Internet almost daily. One of those emails was a recipe for the beef stew my Grandma had sent in a care package to combat the -40C winter weather. It was such a comfort to me then that I wanted to return the favour with a batch of her homemade goodness ready and waiting when she was in search of a taste from the past.
