Poppop

It paused, the sadness. Therapy, renewal.
The fall from confusion into curiosity.
Memories of my grandfather surface.
Acceptance that physical time together has ended, traded now for small glimpses and scattered traces of connection woven through the work we do.

Fly forward. She was ninety-four.
She was watching Everybody Hates Raymond.
Her daughter asked her, “Why are we here? Why did we call?”

And now, in the back of the meat wagon, I find myself in the mother’s shoes, connecting to my own grandfather, as this wise old owl asks me the same question. “Why are we here?” “What’s the point of it all?”
Is she coming to terms with her own mortality?
I’ll never know.

I answered, “To help each other out.”
And once again, I was back with him, embraced by his love and stewardship, living out my own role.

My function is no greater or lesser than the one who hands me coffee at the counter, or the one who provides food for me to eat.
We all serve a function, one for the other.
Mine is only slightly more morose.

The seed of my grandfather’s love is why I love this work.
I am still just a small boy who misses the touch of his grandfather’s hands.