talking

There's a pretty girl speaking sign language to a deaf boy and I can't help but eavesdrop. I have no idea what she is saying, but it is beautiful. I think words were meant to be danced, articulated not just with lips and tongues but with arms and faces as well. Like conducting an orchestra. Like directing traffic or beat-boxing.

When I talk it does not feel like dancing. I feel clumsy when I speak. I would rather write. I can take my time. It is easier to erase written words than spoken words.

I think we all have a way of talking. Everyone is trying to translate their thoughts into language. That is what art is. That is what music is. People talking. In fact, everything we do is communication in a way.

But sometimes, it seems, that I just can't find a way to say what is inside. Have you ever tried to speak but could only pronounce silence? Utter nothingness?

My grandfather was ill suddenly and I was far away. I had been far away for sometime, I regret. Being away, however, had made me realize how lucky I was. I just starting to realize that. To comprehend what it meant to be a grandson. To discover that there were generations in my very DNA. That I am, in part, made of other people. I am the blood of my father. I am the blood of my grandfather and so on. Then to realize that there were not only other people in me but good people, that made me proud.

That's sort of what I wanted to say to my grandpa when I sat beside his bed in the hospital, but I didn't know how. I was stuck. I could not yet articulate it.

I was trying and one morning in Rochester I was thinking about writing a letter to my grandpa, walking down Monroe Avenue scribbling out phrases in my mind, wadding up thought after thought. Nothing seemed to say it right. So I called my mom for inspiration…

The timing and irony of my phone call was amazing horrific. I barely got out, "Hey Mother-deary!" when I was bombarded by tears and screams. My mom's words were hysterical and mangled, but the message was clear: "Grandpa is dying." Within minutes I was in my truck headed West on I90. Six hours separated me from the hospital. I was only to Buffalo when his heart stopped beating. When his blood stopped pumping.

Hearing about the death of a loved one is "like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise."*

Nothing hurts like an unwritten letter. Like words unspoken. Regret is the hardest pain because regret is a lesson learned too late.

It has taken time to be ok with this. To be able to journal this. Because I should have at least tried. Words don't have to dance…dance well, that is. Sometimes they do, but more often they are clumsy. I should have flapped my arms in the air, spat out some words with my tongue tied in a knot and said something, anything. Because dying men needed to know that there life was worth something, anything.

I know my grandfather believed this. That his life was worth something. He even said so. And I heard other people tell him. But I wish I could have added my part. I wish I would have written my letter. But I was slow, I was too slow. And I missed my chance.

We are all dying, in a way, moving toward our inevitable death. And what makes us feel alive are other people who are glad that we are around. We need each others words. They make our hearts beat. So speak. Say anything. Make the phone call. Write the letter. Your chance is right now.


*Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events.