The Day I Met My Future: What My Grandparents Taught Me About Life, Death, and Legacy
A poetic meditation on aging, invisible fingerprints, and what it means to leave your mark.
We all know we’re going to die, and years ago I saw what that might look like.
The ghost of Christmas future visited.
His name was Hank.
Here’s a photo of him feeding me sugar water as if I were Hank’s hummingbird.
Hank had just turned 86, and to celebrate, we had a small family gathering at the community where he lived. We ate bagels and laughed, told stories, and reminisced. It was nice, but it was also hard because my grandpa was not who he used to be. He fell sometimes, and there were bruises amongst the countless sun spots on his arms. His legs ached, and it hurt him to stand for too long, but when he sat, his calves cramped up and gave him pain.
He was a hero of mine, but even heroes evolve.
When I was a kid, my grandma had cancer, lung and then brain. As her memory faded and her body weakened, she was moved to a hospital. I only saw her once at that time, right before she passed away. I remember the day, though, being afraid to enter after walking down the long hall to her room, the smell of sterile walls. I stood in the corner and stared at the tile floors and bedposts, trying to ignore the lady who used to look like my grandma.
It was confronting and confusing, and I didn’t speak too much.
I just watched.
Giving language to my experience, it was something like, “What happens next, and why does she talk like that? How does cancer know when to begin to be bad?”
I think it started with a car crash.
My parents were divorced, and both worked full-time, so my grandma used to pick up my sister and me from school. On the way home one day, we drove right into the car in front of us. It was nothing major, but for a 10-year-old kid, a car crash was a big deal, so I told my mom about it.
When she asked my grandma, my grandma didn’t remember any of it.
It’s funny what we don’t forget.
When I was a kid, my mom used to tell me that her car wouldn’t start unless my seatbelt was on, that my eyes changed color when I lied to her, and that grandma got sick because she smoked cigarettes.
I promise you: Good lies exist.
Some lies even make people better, and when people get better, the world does too, and that’s the truth.
Are you confused?
Me, too.
Me, too.
I don’t understand so many things; it makes my head spin.
Do butterflies reminisce about what it’s like to be a caterpillar, and what do they think lightning is?
Why is gravity such a bully, always pulling everybody down, and do you think shooting stars ever never want to move around?
How can floating fire burn so bright the light hurts my eyes if I stare at the sun, and what is it about the glare in my lover’s hair that helps my heart come so undone?
Is the sun conscious, and if its light could fight the night to a draw, would either side claim they won?
Why is now never enough, and where are the words to bring us more love?
Why can my grandpa slowly lose his memory, but still keep that shining twinkle in his eye?
Will the lucky penny he gave me ever not work, and if it stops and I’m cursed, what then?
Can I trade lucky pennies for warmer friends?
Where does our sense of humor live, and would we need borders if war didn’t exist?
I don’t know much, but I wish that I did.
All I know is I am here, right here, right now, and I take that seriously.
I hold this world in the palm of my hand, and it’s on me to decide where I leave my fingerprints.
Privilege and responsibility are synonyms.