G

I sat in the rain after i found out he died. I didn’t try to shelter myself from it. I just didn’t think of it. It hurt. The world lost someone really great. A man so great the nurses told us so. Even though he lost his ability to speak. He was stripped of his speech and yet his greatness was still understood. He had a kindness that surpassed words. Sometimes just a look was enough. He made people feel better no matter what. He was unjudgemental, forgiving to a fault, kind to excess. He gave everything he had to everyone he could. His brother in law remarked that no one who knew him had a bad word to say about him. He had an innate gift in making people feel understood and heard. He was wickedly funny. He was a rebel alongside my Nonna. He had a relentless thirst for knowledge. He was vastly intelligent. He learnt everyday. Always finding a new project to keep him busy or new topic to research. He shared his knowledge generously. He wanted to know about our learning too. Our essay topics, what approach we were taking, our sources. I conferred with him on my university projects. I respected his opinion greatly and I knew he respected mine too. He heard me out, he read even my worst essays and found the good in them. He said he hadn’t read American Psycho but would because I compared it to The Catcher In The Rye in my dissertation. He remarked;

DearIsi.

That you for my copy of your dissertation I am finding your observation very enlightening and I am just sorry I haven’t read American Psycho -I realise I will now have to if I am to follow your argument. I was put off Bret E,aston Ellis after reading his first book where I did not like his attitude to women and assumed they wouldn’t change in his future writings. So your thesis will help me gain a better perspective on the man.

Your Nanna and I are hoping to get over to see you at Christmas so we must make a point of finding time to talk

As aye,

Grandpa

He took me in for work experience when i was fifteen. He taught me to research, to filter information and to question it. We worked with my cousin. She’d worked hard for him, his desire to learn more was infectious. He let us gossip and laugh as he tried to stay on task. I did take it seriously though. I respected his authority greatly. It felt easy to follow the instructions when I trusted his judgment and reasonings. He showed me how to do a lot of things as my boss of two weeks. I left feeling like I’d achieved a lot. He made me feel like I’d help massively when in reality, my work days ended after lunch so I could keep my Nonna company. I probably spent more time chatting than researching but he still made me feel like an essential part of the team. He always looked at what you had done rather than what you hadn’t, yet. He had a way of making people feel special and understood. He saw people for who they were but also for who they hoped to be, tried to be. He liked you even when you weren’t complete. When you hadn’t yet managed to do the thing you were working towards, he just liked that you were trying to better yourself. He loved to learn. He had a natural gift for knowledge; a fluency. If you spoke to him about a topic he always wanted to know more, he was curious constantly. It was impossible to not admire someone like that. When he learned of beauty he found ways to share it. When he learnt about the horrors he tried to find solutions. He wanted to help. It was an instinct for him. He was always teaching too. He was the teacher I learnt most from. He taught me of history, music, film, books, politics; marxism and socialism in particular. He let me reach my own conclusions even though they were the same as his. He was always a fair man.

He listened to every radio show I made that I sent him and told me off on the weeks I’d forget. He was an avid supporter of anything you told him about. My boyfriend’s new job or my friend’s promotion, he followed up everytime to see how they were doing. He had an endless amount of care for others. It never faultered. Even when we got on his nerves he was patient. Even as he lay in his last hours he needed to know everyone else was okay and looked after.

He grew up with four sisters, had two daughter, three grandaughters and a great grandaughter (as well as two equally kind grandsons). He was always happily outnumbered by women. He knew us to be the smarter sex. He reminded us of that endlessly. There was no ceiling when he was in the room with you. He encouraged us, coached us to always look for everything in front of us. He saw us as limitless, with the highest expectations. But he wasn’t harshly critical when you fell short, he was supportive, you knew he had your back for your next attempt. It just felt good to know someone thought you could achieve so much. I’d never believed in myself anywhere near that but I always felt more capable after speaking to him. You never left a conversation feeling worse. He could make me feel your capabilities had no limit. But he wouldn’t ever let you get big headed or cocky. My grandparents always drilled in us that we were no better than anyone else but no worse either. My grandfather was a humble man.

“The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one” [The Catcher In The Rye]

The sun came out after all that rain but the world felt darker. It really felt like the world had lost something great. I wanted to scream it. It all made less sense. I missed you already. It had been more than a month since we’d last had a proper chat. Wednesdays were terrible without your words. Without your intrigue and excitement over my life. I’d recount my week to you and Nonna and would feel a sense of achievement no matter how little i’d done. Maybe my life wasn’t so small. You were supportive of every endeavour any of us took. You were proud of us all so deeply. I looked back over all the emails you’d sent me. The kind words of pride of the various pieces of work I’d sent you and found an email titled “Welcome Back To Academia”. You talked me through the lessons I’d learn each year I was there. I almost hadn’t returned after my first year. You signed off saying;

‘Isi what ever you do or don’t do, enjoy your self and remember your own survival as an individual is what is most important.’

You saw me when most couldn’t. Even when my words developed later than most others. You found other ways to make me heard. You consistently bought us all diaries and pens and encouraged us to journal. And about anything, our thoughts, our days, our frustrations. I have you to thank for a written log of my life. I can look back at who I was and see her so completely. Journaling led to writing a family newspaper on our visits which led to poetry writing which led to essays to the attempts of a book. It led me to finding the thing that fuels me. The way in which I can understand myself and the world around me. The way I felt seen and heard. Your thing was words. It hurt deeply that you lost your ability to speak knowing that was what you loved most. I saw the frustration in your eyes, the heaviness in how you sighed after the words didn’t find their way out. I knew you were a great listener but an even better speaker. Though you never spoke too much, always the perfect amount to get your point across. You were informative but not patronising. You were respectably commanding propelled with a profound amount of charm. You were kind and humble and you always did your best. No matter what. You lived by love. You spread it every step you took. You showed us real, unrelenting, unconditional love. You treated us all with respect and understanding. You pushed us all to achieve our best without being overbearing. I read you The Catcher In The Rye in your hospital bed. Some fifteen years after you bought it for me. Like you had once in a way read it to me. Given to me at the right age, it had become the perfect vessel for my angst. It gave me solace and heard me like you always had. I held your hand and you listened, you squeezed my hand for me to carry on. I didn’t want to overwhelm you but I knew you needed literature in a time like this.

“Among other things, you’ll find that you’re not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You’re by no means alone on that score, you’ll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them—if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.”

It felt like I was reading the words again for the first time. My speech was nervous. It felt like I was understanding them in a new way. Within a deeper context. I knew you didn’t have much time left with us. But also that you would be with us, always in your words. You taught us to write our own too. So we wouldn’t just live by yours. I felt comfort in knowing your lessons could never end. They would always be in us. And we’d strive for more. And someday teach the ones we learnt too. As long as I was writing you were listening. You were reading, analysing, pondering, asking me what I meant by that. In a life of struggling to feel heard I knew I would always be heard in my written word. I always had an avid audience who cared what i had to say. Who would challenge and congratulate me. Who always wanted to know more.