Five Minutes with Grandpa

"This can't be happening," I thought to myself. It was like something out of a Mitch Albom story, only it was ostensibly real. I could feel myself sink into the velvety soft cushion of the couch in the waiting room. The stagnant scent of cigarettes and old perfume seemed to permeate from the yellowed and peeling wallpaper. Frankly I'd expected Heaven to be a bit, well, nicer.

 

Perhaps it is, once you become a resident, that is, and maybe that was the point. I wasn't there to stay, not yet at least. No, I was only there to visit. I suppose for those of us still here they wouldn't want the place to be too inviting, and by "they" I mean, well, actually I'm not entirely sure. You hear tales of St. Peter and pearly gates and Archangels guiding you through an ethereal afterlife. In my mind I envision a world of sunshine and the smell of fresh linen. Maybe I'll ask. Or maybe I'll be so overcome with emotion I won't be able to say a word and we'll spend the entire time just sitting silently, crying and smiling. I would know soon enough.

 

People make wishes all the time but let's be honest – how often do such fanciful desires ever come to fruition? To date I have yet to win the lotto or share an intimate dinner with Rachel McAdams. Perhaps I was aiming too high. I suspect that the vast majority of us suffer the same fate when we close our eyes, wish upon a star, or blow away an eyelash. I've tossed my coin into Trevi Fountain, but I've not yet returned to Rome. It wasn't until I made a wish with humility that I realized what power love could truly hold over me.

 

Like so many others, I've battled demons, depression and despair. I like to think I've overcome each, for the most part, such that I lead a relatively healthy and fulfilling life. There are those moments, however, when you crash to your knees, cast your gaze skyward and ask "why" through a stream of desperate tears. It was during one of those moments when I called to Him with a simple request. I never dreamed He'd hear me amongst the millions of fraught voices begging for his grace each day. Imagine my surprise when I learned that he'd not only heard me, but would answer.

 

At first I thought it was a dream. Who wouldn't, really? When I opened my eyes I found myself in the small room I described above, though I felt no apprehension or fear. Somehow I knew I was meant to be in that place though, initially, I had no idea why. For some reason I never thought to ponder the "where." I don't think it mattered. I was engulfed by a sense of calm I could not remember feeling in my recent memory. There were others in the room, too, though none looked in my direction. From time to time someone would rise from their seat and pass through the door at the far end of the room, and another would take their place. I never saw anyone enter, nor did I see anyone return. They were simply…there.

 

If you asked me I wouldn't be able to tell you how long I'd been there before a pleasant old man sat beside me and spoke. There was an eloquence both in his voice and demeanor that made me smile. He was dressed as one would expect an old man to dress; he wore tan slacks, perfectly pressed and creased, and a cream-colored, button-down shirt beneath a cranberry-colored cardigan sweater. Despite the fact that his gnarled fingers showed obvious signs of arthritis, he wore perfectly polished and tied, brown leather dress shoes. What little hair that still adorned his head had long since greyed, and his teeth wore the hues of aged ivory.

 

"Good afternoon, my dear boy," he said with softness in his voice. "He'll be ready for you shortly. Remember, you've only five minutes. I'm afraid that's the best we can do. It's surprising busy around here."

 

I looked at the man quizzically. Now that I'd found someone with whom I could speak, the queries in my mind flowed freely. "Where exactly are we? And who will be ready for me?"

 

He smiled and patted my knee. "We call this place the visitor's center. It's where people like you come, in your time of need. You'd be surprised how many, that's why we have to limit your time to five minutes. That's usually all it takes. I've been doing this for, well, golly, far longer than I can remember, and I don't think I've ever seen the same face twice."

 

"I don't understand," I said to him genuinely. His response to my questions only confused me to a greater extent.

 

Again he smiled, though this time he patted my shoulder. "You will. It's almost time. Just remember – there is something you need here. Sometimes people are overcome by the shock, but they recover quickly. Keep your head about you, and you'll find your time far more fulfilling. Good luck."

 

With those words the old man stood and wandered across the room to a young girl who'd been waiting nearly as long as I had. I suspected that the speech he now gave here sounded remarkably familiar to the words he'd just spoken to me. I couldn't dwell on it as my time had come. From the door at the end of the room a pleasant young woman peeked out and said to me "you can see him now." Although I wasn't alone in the room I knew the words she'd spoken were meant for me. I stood and walked to the door, where she directed me into a narrow corridor lined with doors. "Follow me."

 

I did as instructed and eventually she stopped at a door about halfway down the hall. "Here you are. Now be mindful, your five minutes begin when you first see him, and your time ends precisely after five minutes. Sadly, those are the rules."

 

I stared at the doorknob for only a moment before I turned to ask her what exactly was happening. She was gone when I turned my eyes to where she'd been. I sighed, surprised that I had yet to feel fear despite the circumstance. I can't remember what prompted me to reach forward and turn the knob, but I did so just the same. It wasn't until I turned from closing the door behind me that I realized where I was. My breath left me and my eyes welled with tears as I found myself in a place I'd not been for years.  

 

The lace curtains still hung over the window overlooking the small back yard, through which I could see the garden in which I helped pick tomatoes and other treasures so many times as a child. The linoleum floor was worn in an oval where so many of us had traversed so often around the laminate kitchen table. From the dark brown cabinets to the aged stove to the refrigerator still adorned with dozens of photographs, I felt as if I'd stepped back in time.

 

"This can't be happening," I whispered to myself. Slowly I walked through the room, tracing my fingertips across the backs of the chairs at the table until I stood at the kitchen sink. It was a dream, I thought to myself, though every fiber of my being told me it was very much real. No detail had been overlooked, and I chuckled when I opened the cabinet to the right of the sink, lifted my hand, and found the button I knew would be there. I pressed it and, sure enough, the door of the detached garage at the rear of the lot climbed slowly upward. "Well, I'll be."

 

"Jimmy," he said from behind me. I knew that voice. I knew that voice all too well and the very sound of it released those tears that had begun to form. I turned, and sure enough again, there he was, exactly as I remembered him. Well, not exactly. He stood up straight and tall, with no sign of the injury that had shortened his leg and forced him to wear an augmented heel for the entirety of my memory of the man. Otherwise there was no questioning his identity. I recognized every aspect; his gray, polyester pants; his sleeveless undershirt that showed from underneath a slightly unbuttoned, short sleeve, collared shirt; his thick glasses; bald head and two day's-worth of beard.

 

"Grandpa," I exclaimed as I ran to him. He didn't hesitate to wrap me in the strength of his mason's arms, and for a moment I felt complete. In that instant my nostrils filled with the scent of sauce and aged Italian cheeses as the memory of Sunday dinner washed over me like a tidal wave. I knew that the first of my five minutes was gone when I left his embrace, but it was a minute well spent. "How is this possible," I asked.

 

I don't remember sitting, but found myself in the chair in which I'd always sat beside my grandfather, he in his. We faced each other and he smiled. He didn't respond aloud, but placed his hand alongside my face to assuage the pain he could obviously see had grown within me during his absence. His very touch set me free.

 

"I miss you, grandpa," I said, sobbing now. He pulled me close and kissed me on the check, as he'd always done, and I welcomed the sensation of his stubble scratching my face.

 

"Ask me your question," he said when he slid back into his seat. What question? I had so many and had no idea which to ask first. My time with him was passing quickly but no words would come from my lips. I looked into his eyes pleadingly and he smiled. Again. "To answer your question," he began. "You're doing just fine, and I'm proud of you."

 

Four minutes had now passed, and I hugged my grandfather again. Refusing to let me leave without a smile, my grandfather did what he always did – he slid his left hand down my right arm until it cupped the outside of my hand, lifted it, and placed within it with his right hand a folded, crisp, ten dollar bill. He clasped his hands over mine and whispered "go buy yourself something."

 

I chuckled, wiped my tears and looked his eyes on last time. "Thank you, grandpa."

 

"Go on now. Go live," he said to me. And just like that, my five minutes with grandpa were up. I would have sworn I'd only blinked, but when my eyelids parted I was again sitting in my office, at my desk. My tears were gone and a broad smile had captured my expression.
 

"Jim!" my assistant asked again. Apparently I'd not heard her the first time. "Are you okay? You zoned out there for a second."

 

I grinned. "Yeah," I informed her. "Yeah, I'm doing just fine."

 

 

© 2105 J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.