Leaving for College

John knows I'm dying. He leaves for college and the rest of his life next week. I envy him. He called today, saying he wanted to come over and talk. He did not say much more than that. I expect him shortly. Maybe he thinks I have some wisdom to share before he starts school. I am glad to give it, but who listens? Few of my students ever did. John is a good boy. A sensitive boy. My only grandson. We used to fish together on the pond in the back, just the two of us, fishing and talking.

Here I lie in bed with nothing to think about but myself. What is left? Memories. Hard lessons in 82 years of living. Here is my chance to pass them along to someone who might make good use of them. It sounds self-centered, because it is: John is my second chance to get it right.

My wife died last year. Beautiful, wonderful woman. I think about her every day.

I live in a small, tidy room with a large bed—is it really so large or am I so small? The mattress feels hard against my thin back. The blankets are worn. I can see the pond through the window in front of me.

I am thirsty. I am always thirsty. Every time I roll over my bones ache. I can't walk. I can barely feed myself.

I can talk, though. In fact, all I want to do is talk.

Here is John now. My housekeeper and caretaker, Claire, leads him in to my room. He leans over and gives me a kiss on my bearded cheek. I wonder how bad my breath is. He looks tall, broad, and strong.

I tell him to sit down. He pulls a cushioned chair close to my hospital bed. I haven't seen him in several weeks. I have lost weight. My lips are peeling. I can tell seeing me makes him uncomfortable. I cannot change that.

“You know I leave for college soon, Pops.”

Yes, yes, I know, John. I am excited for you. I am going to miss you. So glad you stopped by. What's on your mind?

He hesitates a minute. I can tell he doesn't want to state the obvious—that he wanted to see me before leaving for college, that he may never see me again.

“Pops, what advice do you have for me before I leave this place?”

He could easily have said before you leave this place. I sense he understands that. I look over at him. He is crying now. So am I.

I taught kids like John for 32 years before I retired from the English department at State. I want to tell him so many things: read great books, read the Great Book. Make good friends. Find a woman you love, and really like.

John pulls a wet crumb from my beard. “Corn flakes for breakfast?” he asks.

We both laugh. We laugh for hours, or so it seems.

He does not know it yet: they do not teach relationships like this one in college.