IN THE KNOW


IN THE KNOW






In the last days we knew Grandpa was failing. He was born into a French Catholic family although he did not practice his faith. So Dad called a Catholic priest in the area and asked him to come over and talk to Grandpa.

The "Padre" as we called him, spent some time with Grandpa, then left with a gracious nod and smile, rosary murmuring, missal pressed to his heart.

Grandpa beckoned me to his room. "Honey," he confided, the padre said my life with your grandmother was a sin because she was a divorced woman when we married. He looked at me steadily; he allowed the twinkle of his soft blue eyes to fade and lift the edges of his mouth in a wry smile. "I can't believe that." He breathed softly. Tender remembrances of his life with Grandma flooded the room.






He nodded to me almost imperceptibly casting a sacred pact. I confirmed, mirroring the seal at the edges of my mouth as twinges lifted and pressed the wry. A gentle warmth pervaded my being. It radiated out wholly permeating and connecting Grandpa, Grandma and me—and all others past and present who are--"Yes, Grandpa," I thought, "we're in the Know."

Some days later I was moved to leave my studies and go downstairs to see Grandpa. He was resting quietly, eyes closed. I sat down by his bed. As I took his hand, a current flooded through me gently and insistently. Grandpa adoring his beloved Daisy Beatrice, Daisy B. It continued and continued; then it stopped. Grandpa was very quiet. No breath.





I summoned Dad who was quietly musing and reflecting on the back porch swing. "I think Grandpa's gone," I said. He checked Grandpa's pulse and eyes and after a pause, "Yes, he's gone." He left the room and I heard him calling the coroner.

I sat with Grandpa's precious sacred relic, sheath that encompassed his light and love. "Yes, Grandpa," I thought, "No one can take us; no one can touch us. We're in the Know."

 





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Culture Shock


My Grandpa Dew

Carl's Room

Separation From The Mother

Brendan and the Guinea Turd

In the Know


 

 



© 2005 Laurel Hovde