A Beautiful Day to Die

August 12th was the most beautiful day to live. The sky was clear, the sun was shining radiantly, and the summer air was fresh as line dried laundry. August 12th was also the most beautiful day to die.

Everything was perfect.

Papa had spent the weekend before that Thursday with his family. His son and daughter-in-law came to visit from Washington state, along with one of his grandsons, who came all the way from Washington D.C. Papa also got to see the daughter of his who lived farthest away, along with her husband, who might as well have been his blood son. Ron thought of Alan as his father, and they spent the weekend together having adventures.

That morning, Papa woke up and had cereal with blueberries and bananas, toast with jam, and coffee. He had ridden his bike for thirty minutes, taken a shower, and shaved. From the way things began, the day should have been smashing. And oh, how it was.

It smashed our hearts. Smashed them right into bitty pieces. Because there was my dear grandpa, their father, her husband, leaving us for good. Departing from us the day before his 71st birthday. He winked at them right until the end, trying to let us know it would all be okay, even when there were no words left.

He took all the words we wanted to say with him: I love you.

That night, while most of us laid our tear-stained faces upon our pillows for a night of restless sleep, something else happened. The Perseids meteor shower lit up the night sky. Hundreds of meteors sizzled through the atmosphere, and I think that Papa wanted to be a part of it. He had to leave us so he could make it there in time.

What I do is shut my eyes and press on my lids until I start to see a light show. And then I begin to imagine. I'm lying on my roof, or some grassy hill, and I'm watching the meteors fall. Light streaks through the sky, the tails disappearing. And there's Papa, a goofy grin on his face, blitzing through the raven sky. It's a flash of light, a blink--him winking at us from far above. He's a piece of cosmic dust burning through the Earth's atmosphere.

While we were holding each other that night, hugging one another like we'd never let go, Papa was being held, too. The stars were holding him that night.

Alan J. Schmidt 

August 13, 1939 - August 12, 2010