This week I was reminded of a memory that's not one of my favorites.
When I was in middle school, my parents and I traveled to Richmond, VA, to visit my father's father who was dying. When Senior summons Junior and The Third because his doctor says he's not long for this world, you come.
We went to the Masonic Retirement Home to see him. Papa Stu was a Mason? How did I not know that? My parents told me that until he retired there, they weren't aware either. It's incredible how much you learn about someone right before they die. I suppose it's one of life's ironies.
It was good to see him. To say good-byes and reminisce as much as you can with someone whose memory and hearing are both failing. As I looked back and forth between my father and grandfather, I tried to envision Dad thirty or forty years hence.
Would I be bringing my children to a stiflingly hot retirement home room to visit?
Would my mom be there, or would she have passed already?
What would we learn about him in his final days that had remained hidden for most of his life?
But in another of life's ironies our visit was cut short. My mother's father passed away unexpectedly in Thomasville, NC.
I collapsed into tears.
Where was his final visit?
Where was his gathering of the children and grandchildren?
Where was his chance to say good-bye?
What was his secret I never got to learn?
Papa Stu hung on until well into my college days. When he finally did succumb, I was abroad and didn't even know it had happened until weeks later.
But that's another story for another day.
