Resurrect the Dead

My grandfather and I used to have reading time. He never read to me, rather, we sat in the same room and read our own books. He was a very insular man, short on affection, long on inappropriate humor. The Korean War, a failed marriage, and an orphaned childhood made him appear intimidating to most. I was always an inquisitive child but most of the questions I posed to him were left unanswered. He was a fan of vague responses that signaled you were poking your nose where it didn’t belong. Don’t get me wrong--he cared for me a great deal. His unspoken love was demonstrated through home cooked meals, a hand crafted dollhouse, and hours upon hours spent together in our private time kept away from the rest of the world. We had an unspoken understanding that we were each journeying through literature--albeit, in a solitary, yet, conjoined effort. Everyone in the family knew I was his favorite, but even I didn’t have access to any of his private memories or thoughts.  He died soon after I graduated high school and I immediately set to having a sort of internal script to turn to. When I would describe him to others I had a catalogued list memorized. I retold the same memories so many times that I began to feel like he existed in this finite role that I had assigned him. It made it easier. My feelings were less muddy. He was this, that, and the other. He did this, that, and the other. No room for ambiguity, no room for unresolved emotions.

 

 Then I found an old box of his books. I found the unopened card I had left for him when he entered the hospital. I found endless Charles Dickens’ novels. Strange relics from the past began flooding me with memories. Recently I’ve started reading his copy of A Tale of Two Cities. What I am discovering is astonishing. He wrote in the margins and even bracketed his favorite passages (which is something I’ve always done). Through this text I am able to relive a journey taken years ago. I am able to unveil intimate emotions and reactions from a private man who rarely spoke a word. I am able to once again recognize that he was a man of magic and not just the tough guy with the gruff exterior. My point, which echoes Alli’s most recent blog, is READ! I’ve often had paralyzing dreams where I ask him if he is proud of me. I suppose we all have that vanity that is searching for some sort of resolution and approval. But dreams go unanswered. Instead, I now look to tangible evidence. To all the naysayers that write reading off as escapism I provide an alternative. Reading can help you confront reality. It can bridge time and transport you to the past while still allowing you to relish in the moment. That’s all, for now.