"Pa."
I can still say it, but silence echoes whenever I do. No response, no wink of the eye, no kiss or big grandpa hug, not even a simple wave hello.
I can still picture him sitting in the den, on those black leather couches, in his white tee shirt and boxer shorts. His belly full from dinner, ice cream and Coke on the coffee table close by, but not as close as the TV controller. His fingers switching back from the Giants game to the YES network. Pa would probably be coughing from smoking too much, making my grandma, Emme, yell from the kitchen, "Are you okay Hun?" Before I knew it, after watching him with respect and admiration, it would be time to go. Dad would always say, "Give Pa a kiss goodnight and tell him you'll see him for dinner next week." I did as he said, of course, always in doubt if I would actually see him next week. Pa would wish me good luck in my sports and with schoolwork. Closing the door behind me, I would still hear him coughing as my family and I walked back to the car. As we pulled out of the driveway, I would watch him through the window, waving goodbye with a little smirk across his face. If it were wintertime, I would notice the Christmas lights my grandfather put out in front of the house. It made me happy.
My dad walked in extra late every night from visits at the hospital. Seeing big dark circles under his usually bright and energetic eyes, I knew he was miserable. He wouldn't let my sisters and I know that, though. He still swore every morning, "Everything will be fine. Pa will soon be okay." Lie. We knew it, we just pretended (we get good pretending skills from my father) that we were gullible and naive and believed. Although my dad was good at playing make believe, pretending to be happy, we all knew he was torn to pieces inside. A shattered, thousand-piece puzzle.
My grandfather had been a heavy smoker his whole life. Everyone always warned him to stop, and he pretended he quit to make his grandchildren happy. Lie. (I guess my dad got his good skills at pretending from Pa.) He ended up having a heart attack one night during the early winter and was taken to the hospital. It wasn't his first heart attack. He's had a few life-threatening warnings. He never listened though or took the hint. Little did he know that this heart attack was different. Little did he know he'd never be home again.
A long two months went on. We all tried to live our own lives and continue to do our normal activities. I played my soccer games, did my homework, participated in my youth group, and went out with friends on weekends. But he was always in the back of my mind. How is Pa? Is he making progress? I never really knew the answers to these simple questions because my dad never shared them. I think I never really wanted to get into the details.
Pa was in the hospital for weeks leading up to Christmas Eve. Usually this time of the year was the best, and it still was magical and Christmas-like, but with Pa being sick, something felt missing. Almost like losing that one, big central puzzle piece you need in order to complete the puzzle. It was different. That Christmas Eve ,we went to my aunt's house instead of my grandparents. It broke tradition--usually Pa made his famous Italian dish for our big Christmas Eve dinner. The dish was missing. We all sat down to eat together, but the head chair was empty. Everyone in my family was sad, but we all managed to keep our tears in. My dad talked to my two younger sisters and I that night about missing his father, almost making it sound like Pa had already passed. I'd never heard my dad speak this way before.
Two days later, on December 27, 2002, Pa passed away. My dad was at the hospital all day and night and we found out through my mom. We were shopping at the Short Hills Mall, returning a few holiday gifts. We just left the bright stairways and entered the dark and cold parking garage. The cell phone rang. I felt like we were waiting for this call all day. I was extremely nervous when the phone rang.
I knew it was bad. I just knew it.
My mom said quite simply, "Girls, Pa passed away." She had tears in her eyes and a scared look on her fair face. Immediately, millions of questions jumped into my mind. This has never happened to me before. I never thought it would. Should I cry? Can I call my dad? Do I give a hug to my mom and younger sisters? I was confused and upset.
That same night my aunts, uncles, and grandmother came to our house for dinner because it was closest to the hospital. I remember being extremely nervous. "Mom, what do I say to Emme?" She gently responded, "Just give her a hug and say you're sorry." It sounded so easy, yet it was the most difficult action to even think about doing then. I was scared. I didn't know what to expect. I ended up giving her a big hug, and I said I was sorry. It was different.
At first it was hard when my dad's side of the family came over. Although everyone was sad, having dinner ended up being good. It wasn't a blast, of course, but it was "healthy for the soul." We all teased about Pa and what a character he was, as we retold funny "Pa stories." My favorite one I can remember is the Thanksgiving story. We were all about to sit down, my entire extended family for prayers before we ate. It was tradition for my whole family to say what they were thankful for before we could all eat. Everyone usually goes into elaborate two minute speeches about what they are thankful for, family, health, education, love, Pa stood up and said "I'm thankful for our turkey, Manga," and promptly sat down. Another 'Pa story' that I can easily recall with a smile on my face is when we'd all play our annual New Years day boys versus girls football game on the beach. We all used to bundle up and run out there and have a blast. Pa would come out on the deck in his sweater and say we were all crazy and insist that it was too cold to be outside. Meanwhile he'd go out every hour barefoot sometimes to smoke his cigarettes, telling us he had to get something out of his car.
As we retold these stories, instead of saying Pa is, it was now Pa was. It was different to hear at first. Weird. I learned a lot about my grandfather that day, the day he died. I look back now and am thankful that our house was closest to the hospital. The feeling of having family talk about another family member that just died was totally new and strange for me, yet so comforting and easing at the same time. It made me feel warm. Pa was there still, missing, but still there.
The rest of the entire funeral process had the same effect. One thing I'll always remember was hearing people constantly saying sorry to my family and I over and over again. Yes, it was nice but it was also an annoying repetitive reminder that Pa was gone. I must say though I didn't mind when friends and families came with food to show their condolences. They can do that over and over again. Pa would have liked the food, too.
After the mass, we walked to the grave sight. I vividly remember a cluster of leaves, golden brown, brittle, twirling with small gusts of winds that gave us all chills. I can picture the leaves now turning around and around. Maybe it was Pa sending a sign. Maybe he was there with us, in spirit twirling around in all our memories.
The other thing I remember is watching them lift my grandfather's box into his grave. Weird. Actually, for the first time I think I realized that I'd never see my Pa again. I don't think it was only me that came to this realization at this point either. We left to go to the reception, which I didn't know existed in funerals. We left Pa behind. Or he left us, like the leaves, twirling around and around in a gust of wind.
I met distant relatives I haven't met before. I danced. Again, I ate a lot. (Pa would have been proud of me.) We laughed together. My cousins and I continued to make gross concoctions of mixed food from our half full plates and drinks. My dad and mom continued to go around and talk to all their friends like it was a normal day. My grandmother still looked upset and shocked, however she still walked, talked, dressed, smiled, and acted the same way, or tried to at least. Our individual puzzle pieces were a little distraught, of course, but they were all in shape and in place. However, when you still looked at the whole picture the puzzle is supposed to form, you knew something was wrong. The picture just wasn't perfect.
Afterwards, my extended family and I all joined together to celebrate the New Year. It was one New Year that I will never forget. I felt like everyone had a different look to them, a kind of melancholy expression. We all stayed strong though and ended up still bringing in the New Year with champagne and smiles. Together we watched my aunt and uncles wedding video. Their anniversary was coming up. As we were watching, all the sudden, who pops up on the screen dancing like a child at their first middle school dance, like a drunken teenager at his first concert, or like those leaves spinning in circles, but our Pa.
Immediately, we all practically died laughing. It was hysterical. There was our Pa, in the middle of the dance floor, pulling all his trendy moves and singing along. He looked like the happiest man on Earth. I can't remember how many times we rewound the videotape to save that moment of happiness and laughter. I do remember how great it was, though.
Our family puzzle still has one piece missing (that big center piece that ties all the other ones together) but we're still all there. Somehow. All the support and love that was shared, especially over my grandfather's death, allowed me to further understand the significance of a caring family. Even though that one piece is gone, all the others are attached. And even if that little kid comes running over and smashes the puzzle, after spending hours working on it and keeping him away patiently the entire time, it will always be re-build able. It just takes a little bit more time to overcome that hump.
Nowadays, when I go back to my grandparent's house for dinner, it looks bigger than normal. The house is usually spotless and extra quiet. The black leather couches in the den have a huge empty spot. Lifetime is playing on the television. The coffee table is clear, only the remote control lying lonely in the middle. Dad will tell me it's time to leave still. I run up to the kitchen to give Emme a kiss and hug goodbye. We close the door behind us. The window is empty behind us as we walk to the car. When it is wintertime, I notice there are no Christmas lights out. Maybe I'll put them up next week.
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