61 Steps

Mile Marker 1555:

There are 61 steps to my grandfather’s bedroom.

The first 12 -- from his underground garage to the building courtyard -- are the steepest.  If you live in the city, there’s no such thing as free parking, right?  These stairs prove it.  My car parks for free, but my right knee pays the price.

At the landing, there's daylight.  The next flight is gradual and easier, each step no more than 5 inches high.  Still, my right leg drags the left.  For the last few weeks, I've been here nearly every day.

I cross the flat courtyard, slick with puddles and slush.  Early this morning, an ice storm coated the trees in glass.  But now it's 40 degrees, and that fairyland has turned into a hazardous, dull mess.

As a kid, I found magic in this city townhouse with 4 levels.

Now I just see 3 more flights of stairs:  one cement and two carpeted, with banisters that alternate from side to side.  Since becoming an amputee, I dread this climb.

But today it's not about the stairs, or about my leg, or about me at all.   My grandfather is at the top.

One of my favorites :)

When I was little, "Pop-Pop" worked for the Philadelphia Free Library.  He’d scour the boxes of old picture books, bringing me new ones each time he visited.  For hours, I sat cross-legged with those books on my blue shag carpet.  I read them over and over again.

As I got older, he taught me to play solitaire.  He danced at my Bat Mitzvah.  He let me drive his Dodge convertible to high school.   He visited me in college.  

My hero --
Winter of 1994

And in my mid-20's, when I broke my foot, he took me to the supermarket and out to dinner every Saturday night.

These days, he’s in bed most of the time.  He's smaller now, a miniature of the robust guy he once was.  But his cowboy hats still hang on the wall.   His button-down shirts are still in the closet.  His beaming smile is just the same.

When I walk in, he's always happy to see me.  As the rest of his body falters, his blue eyes stay as bright as ever.  He can’t remember his stories anymore.  And when he tries to talk, the words slip away.  He loses track of our names, our visits, and how we’re all related.  (I've become his "Little Girl," and Mark is “The Judge.”)  Yet he still lights up every time we walk in.

Mirror photography
by "The Judge"

“I love you,” he declares, leaning heavily on the word LOVE.  He puts all his strength into it.  Stretches out the words to prove exactly how much they mean.   He delivers this message generously, sincerely, again and again.

At Mile Marker 1555, I reach the top of the stairs and peek my head into Pop-Pop's bedroom.  His favorite CD, Frank Sinatra’s Songs for Swingin’ Lovers, plays softly in the background.   My mom sits on the edge of the bed, holding his hand.   Zita, his caregiver (and so much more), cradles his head from the other side. 

Today, his eyes are closed.  His breathing is labored.  Over the past week, he’s told us again and again, “It’s time for me to go home.”

“You are home,” we’ve assured him each time.

It doesn’t satisfy him.  He’s restless to leave.  He tells us his whole family is there.  That he hasn’t seen his wife for a very long time.   

He asks his caregivers, Zita and Mattie, to bring him his shoes and his pants.  He tells my mom to gather his wallet, his keys, and his Frank Sinatra CD.  After 88 years, these are the things he wants to take with him.

He tells us over and over again that he loves us.

But today, it’s time for him to go.  His sleep becomes deeper.  His breathing slows.  His eyelids flutter.  His hands get cold.  We feel him drifting away.

At once the room is very, very quiet.  The music has ended.

Zita wipes away her tears and slides the window open.  Beyond the screen, we hear more than just the dripping icicles.  Birds are chirping, a whole flock of them!   So unlikely on this February day....  

If I ever doubted what comes after, I don't anymore.

We're 61 steps up, as high as the treetops.  And if I've got it right, Pop-Pop’s even higher.

Can you hear us up there?   We love you too.