Sing

"K-K-K-Katy, beautiful Katy,
You're the only g-g-g-girl that I adore;
When the m-m-m-moon shines,
Over the c-c-c-cowshed,
I'll be waiting at the k-k-k-kitchen door."

That song will forever play in my head.  He will always be singing it.  He loved to sing, it was one of the things that made him who he was.  His love for animals, his flannel shirts, and the way he always smelled of British Sterling cologne; these things didn't make him unique, it was him that made them unique.  The way he lived his life, the way he loved everyone he met, made him the person he will always be to me. 

He had a tough life, growing up in a foster home in Marlboro.  He didn't tell us about his childhood memories.  Until much later in his life, stories I'm glad I never new when I was younger. I was told of times my grandfather came home from school with wet shoes and was scolded for it, sent to bed with no dinner, only to find that he would get supper that night.  His wet shoes, sizzling from the heat of the oven, sitting on a plate waiting for him.  The person he was in his adult life never reflected that of an abused, orphaned child.   He always new just what to say to make you laugh or smile.

It's called Purgatory, a place souls go once they have died but aren't yet accepted into Heaven or Hell.  To most, it's more familiar to you as limbo, an in between world.  Mostly believed by Christian religions as a place you go to be purified of your sins.  I also believe though that purgatory is where you go when it wasn't your time to die and that you still have unfinished business.

            I was his pride and joy, his first grandchild.  He would always show me off when I was a baby, taking me everywhere with him.  My brother and I were the cornerstones of his existence since the day we were born.  He knew how to play with young children, to get down on his hands and knees and crawl around with us.  He indulged me when I requested to play dress up with him, rarely ever denying me a single request.  He was just as much of a child as my brother and I were, always smiling and laughing along with us.  These things that I will never forget, nor will I ever want to.

Ever since I can remember my grandfather gave me a music box for Christmas.  Beautiful, hand painted music boxes each with a different scene.  Each one had a little girl, playing dress up with her mother's clothes or ice skating on a snowy winter day.  Waking up each Christmas morning the excitement of opening my presents and the curiosity what my music box would be this year.  Carefully taking the package in hand always beautifully wrapped with big glittery bows and elaborately decorated paper.  Removing the paper to see the smooth white box, pulling out the Styrofoam brick to reveal that year's music box.  Carefully picking the statue up in my hands admiring the little girl, pearls around her neck, purse in hand just like how I used to dress up.  Cranking the bottom to hear the tinkle tinkle of the music emerge, right away recognizing the tune.   "Some Day My Prince Will Come".

            It all happened very suddenly one October night in 2000.  With no warning I was left to look after my six year old brother as my mother and father rushed to the hospital.  No goodbye, no explanation, nothing.  "When's Grampy coming back?" I would hear my brother ask, too young to fully understand what had happened.   It was never explained to us only in bits and pieces.  Brain aneurism, fixing sink, blind, deaf, rushed to the hospital, helicopter, panic, worry and tears.  Eavesdropping on my parent's conversations desperate to know of what happened.  A few days later was the wake, the funeral following only within the next couple days.  I stayed strong when with my family, never crying, not wanting to show how hurt I was.  We stopped our routine spaghetti dinners at my grandparents for a while, finding it hard and not the same without him. 

            It wasn't soon before my grandma noticed things rearranged in her house.  Putting her keys on the table to then look down and find them gone.  After searching the entire house, returning to the table and finding them sitting right where she left them.  Sensing someone there or finding things rearranged; whichever it was we all new that it was him.  

Everyone was sound asleep; it was the dead of the night.  A familiar tune woke me and my parents up.  The tinkle tinkle of the music box, the one of the small girl playing dress up.  At first I was scared and nervous about what was happening but it didn't take me long till I knew.  "Some Day My Prince Will Come".  I finally got my goodbye, my last and final visit from my grandfather. 

For whatever reason it may be this has stuck with me over the years.  It was my first experience with death.  As my family read this they told me that they were slightly confused as to why I have been affected so much by this.  They told me that when he was alive I was much more attached to my grandmother, his wife.  I myself don't remember it being that way.  To this day it is still a mystery as to why I haven't been able to let go or if I really ever want to let go. 

            If I have learned anything from my grandfather it is to sing. He is the reason I have such a deep passion for music, any type of music, anything that moves me.  By giving me those music boxes he gave me the gift of music, something that I will always have to remember him by.  But no matter where you are sing, sing at the top of your lungs.

Just Sing. 

Sing.