My grandfather recently paid me a visit, which was unexpected seeing as how he has been dead for almost four years.

Bill Stevenson’s company was an acquired taste, like an old, dry whisky. He had been quoted many times shouting things like “NO! Not twelve inches, more like a foot!” His front door was to be left perfectly adjar as to allow the correct amount of airflow (which was never much) but not to obstruct his view of the driveway from HIS chair. Tucked beside him in that chair was his chrome plated, locked, loaded, ready to go Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum. Every once in a while he would remind one of his usual guests that should any rapscallious punks or ambitious lawmen walk through that door, he would be sufficiently prepared.

From that chair, HIS chair, he had everything he needed. To his right was his coffee (a running brew of unknown age), all manner of pens, notepads, a flashlight, one of these and one of those. Sitting perfectly arranged on the base of his lamp were each of his teeth that had fallen out, root and all, in the past several years. Periodically, a lucky grandchild would be shown the four, yellow momentos, followed by a flash of a gummy grin and the one tooth that still held on. He would laugh from his belly as the youngest of us scattered, later to be reeled in by promises of Reeses Cups or maybe a Milky Way.

When a younger me wanted money for a new video game, I went to Poppop. He would put me to work, the amount of which we would both stiffly negotiate, mowing the lawn, stacking wood, or using an old badminton racket to dispatch resident bumblebees.

The first time I wanted to take a girl on a date, he gave me a hundred dollar bill and told told me to bring back the change.
Any time I called him for a ride from school or here or there, he would be on his way, provided I listened quietly to NPR or Rush Limbaugh.

A good dirty joke (honestly they weren’t particularly good, but they WERE dirty) could send him into a coughing fit. The fiasco was more often than not punctuated by hocking a large, green mass unapologetically into his perfectly positioned waste bin. As the years passed, green became brown, and brown became red.

Bill had put down the bottle, cold turkey, several years ago, and he was proud to tell you. In this case, his family was always proud to listen. He did, however, smoke at least a pack of special miniature cigars a day. He ate less and less, and rarely left his chair, leaving him ever more skinny. He would not set foot in a doctor’s office, and didn’t agree to let a family friend examine him until there was no denying his fate. When his days shortened and visitors became more frequent, no one was surprised.

One morning around Easter I woke to a missed call and text from my uncle. “Dad’s gone. Tell your mother.”
So I slid out of bed, walked softly to the other end of the house, and went to stand beside my mother’s bed. I passed on the message, and watched as she rolled over, curling around her pillow and burying her face in the linen. I didn’t stay to mourn with her, I just went to bed. I did not mourn him at his funeral either, which was a blur of the same sad Waylon Jennings and Hank Williams songs on repeat.

Four years later, we met one last time.

I was watching cyan water undulate in and out of small tidepools of rock and sand. The tide was almost glowing in the noon day sun, which warmed the sand below my feet. He was sitting above the reaches of the tranquil, ever-lapsing waves, with his small bookshelf perfectly organized to his right, where it belonged.

“August…”

I had been mindlessly doodling with chalk on a tabletop, and hadn’t noticed him.

“August. Do you think… Could you give me a hug?” His tone was patient, less abrasive than I remembered. This was a Bill who had surely been humbled upon meeting his maker.

I stood to grant his simple request, meeting him within reach of the tide. His embrace was boney and warm. His tattered flannel still smelled of stale tobacco.

I heard myself battling a sob, having seen this man for an intangible farewell. My whimpering, the beach, and my grandfather were engulfed in incandescent light.

Waking in a train station albergue, my eyes were already swimming. I laid amongst the combating snores of frenchman and thanked the Camino for making me miss my grandfather.