Grandfather

Given what had just happened the music in the elevator was cruel and unfeeling. I never thought that "The Girl from Impanema" would be such a demonic way of torture until I walked onto the elevator after leaving the hospital a few minutes earlier. His face looked so much like a cherub, it moved much the way a child's does before they can talk. Small facial movements that expressed that something was going on in his mind but what it was he could not tell us, the coma encompassed everything. I watched my grandfather lie there and wondered to myself is this how I would want to die? He was not young by any means, his hands were knotted, old and yet somehow still strong. His face it seemed had collected a little dust , the deep wrinkles spoke of a life lived in hardship, and a firm belief that if he worked hard when the end came he would be justly rewarded. Holding my grandfathers hand, I knew a little bit of the connection I have with my family. I am like him in some ways, more than a little stubborn, hard working, strong. But there was something else there too I was not ready for him to die, old as he was, as hard as life had been for him, I wasn't willing to let go. His blood was my blood, right or wrong, a part of me was what my family had been. Farmers, schoolteachers, immigrants, and pioneers, I could never completely walk away from that. I had so much I wanted to ask him, so much to learn so my history was not lost when he was gone, I was not ready.
So, as I entered the elevator at work that day, my mind swimming with thoughts of what would become of him and eventually me, the music cruel and unfeeling, just as it had been in the car, I wondered if life goes on after we are gone, what will play on the radio the day of my funeral, who will the top bands be, and will their songs reach out and touch those who need the comfort most, or will they simply seem not to fit when those I love are hurt and grieving.