Monday- sometime in the morning of August the 1st at around 7:15 am NY time. I sit at the Breslin Bar on 29th street awaiting some egg thing while sipping on supposedly decaf coffee while my 6 month (in utero) child rolls inside of me like a giant bony claw. I think she would have preferred me to have slept a little longer. My eyes are puffy and caked in sleep. It's been a tumultuous week. My paternal grandfather (I've called him Bumpy since I first began to speak) spills his last breaths 2000 miles from where I am now. He is surrounded by loving hand holds, by sons and daughters, grandchildren, and his endlessly devoted mate. They listen as his breath slows. They watch as life pulls away from him.
He sits in his dusty blue reclining chair next to my grandmother in her matching reclining chair. A table once between them, now moved so my grandmother has room to rest her head on his still-warm lap. Her ear absorbs the last remnants of his breath. Her mind prays that his lap keep her head warm for another day, another week, until she too is ready to go.
This specific scene, which I haven't seen in the flesh, consumes my thoughts. The tie between my grandma Millie and her lifetime lover being severed by death is most bittersweet.
I'll be there soon for you grammy. I love you.