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We will be in touch…

We will be in touch…

by: Sean Fitzpatrick

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
Anonymous

It was a little after seven in the morning when I learned that my grandfather had died. He was 98 years old. I was in the kitchen, fussing over a coffee pot and a fussy two-month-old son after a bad night’s sleep on the couch with a head cold. I glanced at my email as the coffee brewed and read a simple, solemn message from my father: “This is to let you all know that Tato passed away this morning at about 4:30. Mom was with him when he died. He died very peacefully. We will be in touch. With love to all. DAD.”

The baby snuffling in the crook of my arm was my grandfather’s 27th great-grandchild. He never met his great-grandfather, I thought to myself, and he never will—on this side of God’s grace, at least. This great-grandson did not know that his great-grandfather was gone, or that he even had a great-grandfather. I informed him of all this as I looked down at him, weighing my own grief.

But as I looked into his infantile, blue eyes with my own that were blurred, it seemed that I was looking into the depths of a sea that knew more than I. As I spoke to my tiny son with a rising swell in my throat and heard him coo back, it seemed a sound from long ago that was in some way wiser than my own. It was as though my baby was consoling me in that sudden moment of unexpected loss—and perhaps he unknowingly was through some knowing spirit of his patrimony. Who can tell? All I could tell was that I felt as if the baby I held had somehow met his great-grandfather that morning.

I did not know my Tato well. But I remember him well. He was a simple man of simple virtues and simple delights. (Would that we all could be so.) I remember his thick Polish fingers that had been forced by the German Army to make sausages holding mine tightly as he showed me to play tunes on his scarred piano, his reedy voice echoing every note above my ear. I remember his thick Polish accent retelling the legends and mysteries of his survival through World War II. I remember his thick Polish face, that once labored unflinchingly to support a large family as an immigrant to Canada. I remember him. I remember him relating how, after his wife died, she came to him in a dream and kissed him, telling him he must not grieve for her. I remember him making soup with zeal for all, crushing peppercorns with a hammer. I remember him listening with intent expression as my daughters played the violin for him. I remember his rosary hanging from a nail in the wall. I remember him leading the multitude of his family in prayer. I remember his old man smell and his sandpaper cheek. I remember him well, and I always will.

All this came flooding to me as I looked into the strangely knowing face of a baby. Perhaps I recognized my grandfather’s second childishness in those wondering eyes. I do not know. Two things only can I say with certitude: for one, my grandfather is gone, and for his loss, I mourn; for another, my grandfather met my son for the first time that morning, and for that I rejoice. I was far away when my grandfather died, but he looked at me one last time through his great-grandson. 

I made the trip home with my family for the memorial. Driving to the funeral parlor, my wife asked, “Will it be an open casket? The kids have never seen a dead body before. How should we prepare them?” I tried to think of what to say, but before I knew it, I found myself standing over the body of my grandfather in the midst of so many silent children—my sons, daughters, nephews, nieces, the great-grandchildren of my grandfather. I could not see any of their faces as they looked with me on that waxen face.

“Can we touch him?” A child said.

“Yes,” I said, “you can touch him.”

A dozen little hands reached over the side of the casket. They touched the hands, the chest, the arms. The children touched the body of their patriarch. They touched the body they had always touched whenever they saw him. But on that day, they touched death, and they knew it—and it was right. The hands of those children on my dead grandfather offer solution and sanity. No matter how self-destructive the world is, people still want to live forever as the ancients did—that desire is the basis of all philosophy and theology. Death must, when all is said and done, play the right part in that desire for eternal life if it is to be fulfilled. 

May he rest very peacefully. We will be in touch.

Featured image: courtesy of pexels.com, pexels-photo-2586537


Sean Fitzpatrick serves on the faculty of Gregory the Great Academy in Elmhurst, Pennsylvania. He teaches Literature, Mythology, and Humanities. Mr. Fitzpatrick’s writings on education, literature, and culture have appeared in a number of journals including Crisis Magazine, Catholic Exchange, the Cardinal Newman Society’s Journal for Educators, and the Imaginative Conservative. He lives in Scranton with his wife, Sophie, and their six children.


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It was a little after seven in the morning when I learned that my grandfather had died. He was 98 years old. I was in the kitchen, fussing over a coffee pot and a fussy two-month-old son after a bad night’s sleep on the couch with a head cold…

This was his favorite part of the day. Every return home from work during the summer was like this. The kids would be outside playing; either kicking a ball, or throwing it at each other, or chasing each other around and around the house.

It is a time of great joy and communion that we are experiencing this morning, as we celebrate the eucharistic Sacrifice: a great gathering, in union with the Successor of Peter, consisting of faithful who have come from many different nations. It is an eloquent image of the Church, one and universal, founded by Christ…

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