It was definitely him, looking more dapper than ever. My Grandpa had a close-cut beard, white of course. In life he kept his face clean-shaven. His shirt was a button-down white Oxford with narrow, dark blue stripes set wide apart, underneath a burgundy v-neck sweater. While he was living, I remember him wearing calm tones that complimented rather than contrasted. He may or may not have had his cane with him in my dream, yet he needed it to walk and steady his balance in his living, breathing days.
Anyway, when he hugged me in greeting, he patted my lower back. I don't know; there's this way he has of pressing the lower back that reassures the hugee it's him. With Grandpa, you were always the hugee. He seemed reassuring that way. And he always did that lower-back press. I feel certain the action was intentional on his part, his signature gesture, if you will.
He was intentional about everything. He even had a breakfast schedule: on a certain day oatmeal, on another fried eggs and bacon. He used to say it was one thing over which he had control in life, so why not take advantage? He'd shrug in a boyish way, and laugh off-handed, feigning boyish innocence in his conquest over the unpredictable. I always secretly guessed that the whole thing was funny until someone really tried to mess with his meal schedule. To my knowledge, no one ever did.
I digress. His coming to me last night, in my dream, it felt like one last greeting, with the whole family there, and it really felt like the real thing. Grandma was smiling in her black patent-leather pumps, pleased as ever to be together looking like one big happy family. My mother stood to the side, smiling, arms crossed, approving. Harold and Anne were somewhere in the room, maybe behind me. And before our visitors, Mom and Grandma, entered through the back door, I remember dreading: this will be the first time I greet my Grandma as a widow. It was a dreadful thought, which made my heart pound and threatened uncriable tears in front of visiting family members who most certainly would be put over their respective edges of barely holding it together for their own grief if they saw me break down.
Jews know how to mourn. The wailing wall gives them cart blanch to cry their hearts out. Even when they're here in America, they own that magnificent tribute to loss, in their history. Catholics somehow presume composure at the most dreadful times. I'm mad he's gone. I miss him terribly. The world is less without him.
And I know it was him, who came to me in my dreams last night, and gave me that one last comfortable family greeting; we could all be there, together, in my night visions. I cherish that memory; I feel literally touched by him. He came through, once again. Grandpa was nothing if not predictably reliable. I love him so much, and it's dreadfully sad he's gone. Thank you, Grandpa.
Thanks for standing up when you hugged me good night, while all the other grown-ups would stay sitting on the couch, unmoving. Thank you for giving me confidence in my taste in clothes, and my choice of diet. Thank you for teaching my daughter how to play tic-tac-toe with even more complexity. Thank you for making tough moments light-hearted. Thank you for taking me to the park when I was little. It's one memory I've lost, which tells me those were carefree moments. Thanks for those. Thanks for standing when I came into the room. Thanks for tipping your hat. Thanks for teaching me how to think about someone else's perspective. I'm still working on that one. Thanks for being so affirming to me. I love you. Thanks for coming to me when I needed you last night, in my dreams. Thanks for still being there for me when I need you.
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