One year ago today we were in New York, getting ready to attend an afternoon wedding reception.
One year ago today the air and the light and the colors were golden fall perfection.
One year ago today my grandfather decided to take his own life.
The weather this morning—a mix of summer sunshine and fall crispness, reminded me of all these things, and of the feeling early September always holds for me, the feeling of a slow release, of things beginning to sleep.
In the fall we reach the pinnacle, a long climb towards golden days and afternoons, the most abundant harvest of the year. And then an inevitable tumble downwards, the necessary death of things before for winter, the preparation for darkness.
Nine years ago, the subtle violence of Autumn became more real to me as the towers fell, and the world and how it no longer quite made sense anymore. And now there is this personal loss as well, just as sudden and brutal and unexpected, to be mixed in with the changing of leaves and shortening of the light and a creeping coolness in the air.
Thinking back on my grandfather and his death is a complicated thing. In some ways the generational gap between us made things slippery, as though we were two bumper cars endless bouncing off each other, no real texture or footholds to grab on to. In other ways, my grandfather tried hard to build those footholds in the only ways he knew how. On his old pontoon boat, he let me drive before I was tall enough to see over the steering wheel, and taught me how to fish. He insisted on attending my college graduation, even though the walking pained him, and on visiting me in Chicago, even though the long drive wasn’t good for him. At dinners and parties and holiday tables, he often couldn’t hear what we we’re saying, and if he could, there was a good chance he still wouldn’t be able to understand it.
We tried, on both our parts, to build a dialogue. To foster a conversation between him and I, so that there would be some parts of him to pass on to future generations, to add to the collective memory of our family.
I do hold these memories gently; in their very preciousness, I don’t want them to break. But these are things that are just for me. What I take—what I will pass on—is something more blunt and strong. A way of thinking, a strong-willed, bull-headed way of life that served him in his living moments, right up until his death. My grandfather did not like to be told what to do, as I do not like to be told what to do. This is why I can understand that, when he became a prisoner in his own body, he wanted to take things into his own hands.
In this way, his undoing, however sudden and brutal it may have seemed, revealed the best parts of who he was, the golden things. This is what I will harvest from him.
One year ago today the air and the light and the colors were golden fall perfection.
One year ago today my grandfather decided to take his own life.
The weather this morning—a mix of summer sunshine and fall crispness, reminded me of all these things, and of the feeling early September always holds for me, the feeling of a slow release, of things beginning to sleep.
In the fall we reach the pinnacle, a long climb towards golden days and afternoons, the most abundant harvest of the year. And then an inevitable tumble downwards, the necessary death of things before for winter, the preparation for darkness.
Nine years ago, the subtle violence of Autumn became more real to me as the towers fell, and the world and how it no longer quite made sense anymore. And now there is this personal loss as well, just as sudden and brutal and unexpected, to be mixed in with the changing of leaves and shortening of the light and a creeping coolness in the air.
Thinking back on my grandfather and his death is a complicated thing. In some ways the generational gap between us made things slippery, as though we were two bumper cars endless bouncing off each other, no real texture or footholds to grab on to. In other ways, my grandfather tried hard to build those footholds in the only ways he knew how. On his old pontoon boat, he let me drive before I was tall enough to see over the steering wheel, and taught me how to fish. He insisted on attending my college graduation, even though the walking pained him, and on visiting me in Chicago, even though the long drive wasn’t good for him. At dinners and parties and holiday tables, he often couldn’t hear what we we’re saying, and if he could, there was a good chance he still wouldn’t be able to understand it.
We tried, on both our parts, to build a dialogue. To foster a conversation between him and I, so that there would be some parts of him to pass on to future generations, to add to the collective memory of our family.
I do hold these memories gently; in their very preciousness, I don’t want them to break. But these are things that are just for me. What I take—what I will pass on—is something more blunt and strong. A way of thinking, a strong-willed, bull-headed way of life that served him in his living moments, right up until his death. My grandfather did not like to be told what to do, as I do not like to be told what to do. This is why I can understand that, when he became a prisoner in his own body, he wanted to take things into his own hands.
In this way, his undoing, however sudden and brutal it may have seemed, revealed the best parts of who he was, the golden things. This is what I will harvest from him.
A beautiful reflection on change and loss and the ability of memory to preserve what is most worth celebrating.
Posted by: Olivia V. Ambrogio | September 14, 2010 at 05:26 AM
As someone who has experience with suicide, my heart goes out to you; and, I marvel at how you are able to see past that to some really lovely memories and to find some love. I am so sorry for your loss; but, I am grateful for this lesson in grace.
Posted by: Brandee | October 06, 2011 at 06:00 AM
Thanks @Brandee!!
Posted by: Noel | October 07, 2011 at 07:25 AM