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I'm not sure why death shakes us so violently.
Perhaps it is a fear of the unknown, or maybe it is a fear of the life we have not lived. My world was turned and shaken the other night while I was out with my friends. My mother called late. I don't talk to Mom on the phone too often, and I know that when she calls that late that something is wrong. My face cringed, adrenaline began to seethe in my veins, and I ran outside.
I called her several times, until she finally picked up. She broke the news that Grandpa, her father, had passed away.
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I sat on a stoop, my hands buried in my face, crying. But now, a few days later, in my sobriety, both emotional and otherwise, I have to wonder what I cried so much about. And selfishly, I think I was crying more for myself than I was for Grandpa.
It's funny, my namesake comes entirely from my father's side. Paul comes from my dad's great uncle, a mentor and a true father to him; Emerich has emerged as somewhat of a family name, originating with my great grandpa Emerich Valla (Walla) from Czechoslovakia, another prominent patriarchal figure in my father's life. France, of course, comes from my father's side. Ironically, I've always been told I resembled my Grandpa, not only in the flesh, but also in spirit. In fact, I always have felt a strong connection with him, unlike anyone else.
So perhaps, the other night, when I was unraveling on a stranger's stoop, I was crying out of fear, for one my biggest male role models had passed, no longer able to impart humor and wisdom upon me. Part of me was crying out of disappointment in myself, for not calling more frequently, for being so self-centered and focused on my own problems, not selfless enough to mask them to care for him.
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I'm not trying to say crying is a bad thing. It's cleansing--a bittersweet somatic response to an external cognitive stimulus. How our bodies know when to cry, and how they make that connection between the emotional and the physical, I'm still trying to figure out. Perhaps my "cognitive stimulus" has changed now. Instead of crying out of fear and disappointment, I'm now crying out of pride. While my name is not reminiscent of my grandpa, my heart is a reincarnation and an embodiment of the man he was, and still is in my memory. His selfless actions, his love for my grandma, and his undying loyalty to his daughters are something I will forever strive to imitate. He's the reason I believe in good men and the hope I still have for true love.
I know that, in the future, when I see my grandma, that I will remind her of him, and that she will still feel his presence. I just hope that the shoes I set beside his will at least, minimally, compare.
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I sat on a stoop, my hands buried in my face, crying. But now, a few days later, in my sobriety, both emotional and otherwise, I have to wonder what I cried so much about. And selfishly, I think I was crying more for myself than I was for Grandpa..JPG)
I'm not trying to say crying is a bad thing. It's cleansing--a bittersweet somatic response to an external cognitive stimulus. How our bodies know when to cry, and how they make that connection between the emotional and the physical, I'm still trying to figure out. Perhaps my "cognitive stimulus" has changed now. Instead of crying out of fear and disappointment, I'm now crying out of pride. While my name is not reminiscent of my grandpa, my heart is a reincarnation and an embodiment of the man he was, and still is in my memory. His selfless actions, his love for my grandma, and his undying loyalty to his daughters are something I will forever strive to imitate. He's the reason I believe in good men and the hope I still have for true love.