Bookends

My son recently enjoyed his first Christmas celebration while my eighty-year-old grandfather savored his last. On December 16th, these bookends of life––one story collecting its first details and another penning its final chapter––collided in a bright living room in San Clemente for our annual family gathering.

The predictable staples were present: a honey ham accompanied by cheesy potatoes, a haphazard pile of mystery gifts that would soon be fought over, and the steady clanking of pool balls aimed at the corner pocket. Thrown into the mix were a few new additions: a medley of plush holiday characters serving as Christmas decor, a thin tube connecting my grandfather to an oxygen tank, and the ominous hum of laughter grating against grief. Blended together, these details signified a family determined to enjoy favored traditions despite the unavoidable reminders of mortality.

As the evening got tired with babies up past bedtimes, both grandparents and new parents ready for their rest, I hugged Big Papa goodbye. I then began to crawl awkwardly about the floor in my holiday dress, grasping at the confetti of baby items that had been thrown across his living room rug. In this disheveled, clumsy moment of my early motherhood, he said: “Rylie, it is great seeing you as mom.”

I thanked him with an insecure smile and continued to shovel the traveling nursery into the too-full diaper bag. Throwing it over my shoulder, I caught Maverick mid-crawl and headed toward the back door. Before stepping outside, I leaned around the enormous Christmas tree to wave at my Big Papa, seated at the end of his oversized leather couch. He waved back and flashed me one last smile, his full cheeks just visible above a bird of paradise that was craning its neck out of the wintery tree branches.

His grandkids knew him as “Big Papa.” This self-selected title was either a wink from his sense of humor or a nod to his optimism. He was the slightest in stature of my trio of grandfathers.

In my earliest memories, Big Papa was the wealthy business guy who had endless money in his piggy bank. I knew this at six years old because he was the only person I had ever met who had a slide built into his staircase and a fire pole connecting his upstairs hallway to his living room. I am pretty sure the closest I have ever come to breaking a limb is careening down that slick wooden slide––set at a deadly 60 degree angle––until my momentum was abruptly stopped by my feet, shins, and sometimes entire upper body making contact with the orange tile floor of the first story. My grand sense of adventure was likely born in the moment I refused to let my heals slow my descent, giving in to my curiosity of what would happen if I greeted the cold, hard tiles at 75 mph.

In adulthood, my relationship with Big Papa was not sentimental, nor intimate. Instead, we enjoyed a clunky fondness that in moments could bridge our generational differences through glimpses of commonality: a spontaneous shot of tequila shared at my brother’s glamorously extravagant Mexican wedding; a warm greeting of “How ya doing, Pal?”; a gift frantically tossed toward the other before the White Elephant timer buzzed; a preference for Mexican food that cannot be attributed to our Scottish heritage.

But of the bundle of memories I will continue to carry, there is one in particular that will remain my fondest. It went something like this:

My large, intergenerational family is once again seated in that same bright San Clemente living room playing an unruly, competitive game of Catch Phrase. Suddenly, an off-the-cuff joke is tossed into the bustling commotion. Surprised by his own wit and humor, Big Papa’s chuckle begins to compete with GG, who is currently holding the blue-and-white beeping contraption and shouting wildly at her teammates. An abrasive buzz sounds mockingly to signify the end of the round and solidify my grandmother’s frustrations. My attention now freed, I turn toward the edge of the couch and smile at Big Papa, who has been absolutely overtaken by a full-body chuckle. Aware that his uncontrollable laughter has become the new focal point, he begins to loudly clear his throat and swipe nervously at his eyes in a miserable attempt to regain his composure. Trying to spare him, my dad kicks off the next rowdy round of Catch Phrase, but as my dad’s shouting intensifies with the beeping, Big Papa’s laughter continues to come in bursts. And as he laughs, his cheeks come alive in a warm, rosy glow.

I will always remember rich red as the hue of my Big Papa’s deepest joy.

On the night Big Papa passed away, my Maverick couldn’t sleep. After a fifth failed attempt to put him to bed, I conceded. Resembling a dog with her tail tucked between her legs, I carried Maverick back toward the living room of our seaside vacation rental in Oceanside. My husband, dad, and brother were sprawled comfortably across couches and arm chairs, enjoying the company of a bad movie and playing games on their phones. Amidst this vacation rest, I lowered Maverick into his playpen, settled in beside him, and watched my son be overtaken by a spontaneous bout of contagious giggles.

Using the playpen’s mesh wall to pull himself into a standing position, he peered into the living room and let out an unprompted laugh. When his grandpa responded by leaning forward abruptly and twisting his face into a goofy grin, Maverick’s giggles magnified into squeals, and my seven-month-old fell wholeheartedly onto his back in a fit of belly laughter.

Eventually exhausted by his own sense of humor, Maverick succumbed to sleep at 11pm.

An hour later, I was lounging comfortably on the couch with the grown boys and doodling sleepily in an open journal. Drawn out of my concentration by a ping in the master bedroom, I elbowed my dad, “I think I heard mom’s phone ring in the other room. It might be an update.”

Like a runner taking off at the sound of a pistol, my dad sprang from the armchair and bolted into the other room. There, my mom was dozing on the bedroom couch with a 102-degree fever and her phone at full volume, awaiting the announcement of her dad’s passing. After a pause that awakened butterflies in my gut, my own dad re-emerged to summon my brother, Preston, and I into the room.

Big Papa had passed away at 10:45pm.

The four of us gathered together in the hollow silence that accompanies the loss of a loved one, the air thick with fever and death and grief. I sat breathless in the dark with my mom flattened on the couch, my dad seated near her feet, my brother slouching on the edge of the bed. As I pulled my knees to my chest, I glanced out the window and caught one last wave from Big Papa as he transitioned on to whatever is next: birds of paradise––a symbol of joy, anticipation, paradise, freedom––illuminated in the dark below a misty street lamp.

Looking back, I often wonder if Maverick was privy to something that evening. Untainted by the clamor of the world, it is almost as if he could hear Big Papa’s soul departing his earthly body and taking his first tentative steps in whatever comes next.

Maybe God fashioned birth and death, the mystical bookends of life, to be intertwined in this way. Maybe it’s our elders who have the honor of welcoming and receiving their descendants into this big, wild world, and maybe it’s our babies who have the privilege of escorting their ancestors on to the great unknown.

On that gloomy December evening, what if it was Big Papa who, on his way out, gifted my Maverick with his unquenchable zest for a good belly laugh. And what if it was Maverick’s sweet baby giggles that helped my Big Papa’s soul take flight as he began his journey home.

This story was published in Substack. View the original story here.