Abstract
O
My grandfather died four years ago today. Maybe that's why the old man sitting next to me on the train reminds me of Pops: curly white hair running over the edge of his collar. Rumpled Polo shirt and blue blazer. He's been asleep most of the trip, a book of poems resting on his chest.
I left New York early this morning, excited to see my old buddies from high school, and undecided about returning to Pops' farm where I spent so many days fishing, laughing, and talking with him on the pond. He helped my mother raise me in central Virginia. He taught English at State University for over 30 years. I can't stop thinking about him today.
The old man suddenly wakes up, snorts, and then blows his nose. In a cheerful, soothing voice, he turns to me and asks, “Where are you going, young man?”
He even sounds like Pops. I remember how he used to quote the poet Wendell Berry, saying our real work in life begins when we don't know what to do, or where to go. I look down at the floor and notice a large bag of books in front of him.
“My high school reunion,” I tell him.
“I remember my early reunions,” he says. “That was some 50 years ago. Lots of drinking, lots of bragging. Who looks good, who doesn't. Sometimes you have to go back to learn you can't go back.”
I look out the window. I can tell we're in Virginia now. The mountains are dark blue, the grass and trees as green as I've ever seen them.
“By the way, I'm William,” he says.
“Nice to meet you. I'm John.”
The book of poems is now on his lap. I strain to read the title.
“Poetry can save your life, you know,” he says.
I smile and nod. I don't feel much like talking. I pull a magazine from my backpack.
—
The doctor said sometimes you don't know when a person is going to die. I understand that now. Pops' “last days” turned into weeks. My mother and I nursed him through the nightmares. Through the agitation. We waited for him to die. And we waited. The doctor told us what to look for at the end: coma. Slow breathing. Blue lips.
“And don't be surprised if his eyes don't close.”
Two weeks into the vigil, the doctor came by to examine Pops. Before entering the house, he asked me,
“Has his breathing slowed down? Is there a gurgle in his throat?”
I said yes two times before he patted my shoulder. Pops died eight hours later. That's when my real work began.
—
The old man is sleeping again. Hours pass. In the back of the train I can hear young boys laughing. A tennis ball rolls down the aisle and lands under my foot. I kick it back to them. Outside, I can see the sun approaching the tops of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I pull down my luggage from the rack, preparing to get off at the next stop.
When we arrive at the station I see my buddies waving furiously to get my attention. I say goodbye to the old man and drive off with them.
“Can we make one stop before we head over to the high school?” I ask.
We drive down a narrow farm lane. At the red gate I get out of the car and walk toward the pond.
“I won't be long,” I holler.
Before I reach the pond I see two boys fishing off the bank. One of them quickly raises a line over his head.
“Look at these, mister!”
I smile at the boy and then gaze at the still water. The geese, the willow trees hanging over the edges—just as I remember them. I step away from the boy and say a prayer for my grandfather. As I'm praying I can hear the boy struggling to get the fish off the hook. I open my eyes and take the line from him and unhook the fish. He thanks me and shakes my hand before I run off. In the car I look over my shoulder and watch the boys head toward the farm house. My work is done here.