Omen

The day my grandfather died was on the first month of the Gregorian new year two-thousand twenty-two, on the twenty-second day. I found out at 2 PM. Or pretty close, anyway.

I guess I’d seen it coming.

He was the father of 3, the grandfather of 8, and the great-grandfather of 6. He was 90 revolutions old and had every right to die.

But it doesn’t mean it felt good.

I sat there, aimless. Dizzy. Crying. Sick to my stomach and exhausted.

The last time I’d seen him was 2 years ago. Which feels like an eternity ago in this Pandemic.

The last time I’d seen him, he was cheerful. Which feels like an eternity ago in this Global Pandemic.

I was going to see him for his 91st revolution. On Feburary 19th. We were nearly exactly 60 years apart. I, too, was born in Feburary. Only 7 days before and 60 years after. Something like that.

I remember all sorts of things. His approval was worth more than anybody’s approval. I don’t know why. Maybe because it was hard to get.

His mind worked in measurements in a way that mine never has. We both shared unrivaled curiosity.

Ugh. Nausea. That seems to be what I feel the most when I’m sad. Like a hole, a void, in my body. A hungry ghost seeking reconciliation with mortality.

Of course, he’s allowed to die at 90 revolutions.

But I didn’t get to see him.

Last time I saw him, I asked him questions in my native tongue, now only a shadow of a native tongue. He, my connection to my culture.

My siblings called. We talked about random things…because what is there to say? “He was old”? “He’s gone”? What are you going to say about an old man dying?

They say the owl brings omens of the night. That an owl is Death. Show me a culture that does not believe in the owl, the pale-faced messenger?

I find myself craving some symbolism to cling to. I google: “What Does It Mean To See An Barn Owl?” Some sign that there is meaning in endings. But it’s just that. An end. What is there to discuss when an old man dies?

90 revolutions! he pronounced in shock. He would remark on his age over and over, having forgotten his last realization just minutes before.

If life is for making memories, what does it mean when those memories fade? I find myself wondering over and over, having yet to build my own life ahead.

To be stuck on one record, confused, angry, lonely, lost. To forget your own bones as they break. To feel forgotten because you’ve forgotten their last visit just minutes before.

I still feel that nausea brewing somewhere below my solar plexus, you know, that soft spot right below where your ribs meet?

As I think of him now, I see a barn owl’s heart-shaped face focused in, in the midst of an aerial stunt. Silent wings.

He was so proud of this little ceramic trick pot he’d found in an old barn sale, or somewhere, anyway. He’d explained how the holes weren’t really holes. How it looked like the water would come out, but it wouldn’t because it was engineered not to.

Maybe, I too, was engineered not to leak. That my grief, my hungry ghost in my soft spots, could come to flow through me.

Is this the shadow work of healing? I see my grandfather letting go of his mortal shell, focused in, in the midst of a transition to an existence free of form. Silent.

Today on this day, the first month of the Gregorian new year, two-thousand twenty-two on the twenty-second day, I found out my grandfather died.