You Don't Have to Rush Off

It was like a 1lb. bag of animal crackers and a box of butter mints were the "admission" price to get to spend time with the toddler.  Paw-Paw would have them ready, exchanging them for hugs and the chance to sit and watch the boy move about his living room, picking things up, throwing things down; rearranging any organization he had to the place.  The baby would take every magnet off the refrigerator and move them all into a clump in one spot.  Half of the magnets were holding up pictures of the baby; in Halloween costumes, in swimmies at a pool, or petting animals at the zoo.  The baby especially loved to press the tea kettle magnet, look at his Paw-Paw with a toothy grin and squeal when it whistled.  You could have stopped the clock for the man, he would have been more than grateful to live the rest of his life in that moment.

Paw-Paw soaked up the limited time he had with him, not knowing when he would see the baby again.  After an hour visit in his 90 degree living room, we looked at our watches, picked the baby up and told Paw-Paw it was time to go.  Every time he would say "Well, you don't have to rush off".  But we did.  You see, we were busy.  So many places to go and things to do and people to see.  

We used to sit the baby down and draw pictures for Paw-Paw if we hadn't had the chance to go visit him.  We would ask the baby what he wanted to say to Paw-Paw, then put it in quotes above the picture.  Sometimes it said whatever he was thinking, like "I want a big giraffe".  We put it anyway.  I imagined Paw-Paw, in his long sleeve button down shirt in 80 degree weather, walking to the mailbox to retrieve the latest message from his dear one.  He clung to those letters until the next one would arrive.  

Paw Paw's 95-year-old body eventually grew very weak.  There would be no more visits to his stifling hot living room.  Paw Paw's visits with us were now done in a small, curtain-divided nursing home room with a man next to him wailing that people were trying to kill him.  It made him sad not living in his own home, not having a place for us to sit, except on the side of his hospital bed.  But it made him happy to see his boy.  He tried to pull the boy, now six, up on to his lap so they could just sit together.  He was so weak now, and the boy sensed it.  He climbed up into his Paw-Paw's lap, knowing there are no more magnets to rearrange, or whistling tea kettles.  The two sat, and stared out the window; probably thinking of a nicer time, but not mentioning it.

 

  

As we gathered our things and promised to visit again soon, Paw Paw began to fidget with his hands and wrist.  His voice was garbled and low.  When we got closer, we realized that he was taking his watch off.  He held it high in the air, shaking one end of it and motioning for his boy to come retrieve it.  We fastened it around our son's tiny wrist.  He moved the new trinket about, turning it right-side up, and beamed when the face of it landed in the right spot.  His Paw Paw reached his frail, boney hand out and patted twice on our son's arm.  Paw Paw was satisfied. 

That was the last visit we had with him.  If we had known, we would have stayed longer, we would have covered his room in pictures from our son, we would have sat on the edge of that bed until someone told us we had to leave.    

Paw Paw was right all along.  We didn't have to rush off.