On the evening of January 17, 2000, I, a college freshman, boarded a flight back to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, to begin my second semester at Marquette University.   Most of my friends were making their way back to school as wellÖall confident and cool, relaxed and reassured-we had made it through that first semester of collegeÖeveryone was carefree, everyone was ready to leave our hometown of St. Louis again-everyone, that is but, me.

    I returned to my dorm room in downtown Milwaukee that evening in quite a different state than the friends I found there. Everyone hugged and laughed, so happy to see each other, so happy to be back in this newfound college life that we had all grown to love in the past months.  I too smiled and hugged, laughed and said my hellos, but inside my mind was racing, my emotions were flying, and if a heart can cry, mine was weeping uncontrollably.  To say even one hello that night was like trying to take a step through quicksand, for the only thing I could focus on was my last goodbye.  That was all that mattered.

      Up until that moment, I had never thought of my grandad as sick.  We had known about the cancer for well over a year and nothing seemed to change in him.  He was still the most athletic person I knew.  Maybe he wasnít playing golf as much as he used to, but he was still going out on the courses with his golf buddies that very summer.  Furthermore, we had all just grown accustomed to believing that he was going to enjoy the same longevity that had preceded him. His father had died just five years before at the age of ninety-eight.  There was no doubt in any of our minds, at least as far as I was concerned, that he was going to live that long as wellÖhe was too strong, too energetic, too young-heartedÖtoo important.  Grandad wasnít going to die.  He had fifteen or twenty good years left.  He wasnít going to die.

    In the end of October, I went back home to help celebrate Grandadís eightieth birthday.  When I arrived at his party, he came over to me and hugged me, telling me he liked the sweater I was wearing, that I had just bought the day before.   Everything was fine, normal even.  That night was the last time I saw him walk.  When I flew back for Thanksgiving a month later, the first thing I did was visit Grandad in the hospital.  He had oxygen tubes on his face and flowers surrounded him as he lay there in his hospital bed, still cracking jokes, still lighting a room with that smile.  I remember walking out of the hospital that night, trying hard to fight back tears.  My efforts were only in vainÖit was finally all registering. A few days after Thanksgiving, he was moved to his home, and Hospice began coming more regularly.  Grandad would never leave that house again.  The only thing on his side, on my side, was time- time that would be eaten up by exams and sleepless nights in Milwaukee, as I finished up the semester, as he lie there paralyzed in that old house on St. Anthony Ln., where we had all gathered for family parties and Christmases, summer barbeques and Thanksgivings, for as long as I could remember.  In that time, I kept in good touch with my family, in hopes that something would turn around, that somehow my grandad would get better. He didnít.

In my youth, I didnít realize what we had in the Tanner family, or more appropriately whom we had.  It was probably the summers that I cherish most.  Grandad loved the summertime.  Weíd all gather in their back yard, amidst a game of woffel ball, a croquette set, a volleyball net, scattered golf clubs, and his white hammock.  Weíd eat Grandadís barbeque, a fresh slice of watermelon, and if we were lucky, homemade ice cream that he and Granny had churned up earlier in the day.  Some summers, heíd plan a family float trip. Weíd stay in some lodge for a couple of days, rent canoes or rafts and float the river together as a family.  I remember one time about nine of us grandchildren had just finished ìshort-sheetingî the last bed of our parents as Grandad rounded the corner.  He looked at us in all seriousness, ìDid you guys short-sheet Uncle Bobís bed?î  As we stood there in shock, looking at each other, confusion covering our faces, fearing what he might say, he figured us out.  ìDarnnitî he said laughing,  ìI wanted to get him.î   He lit up on those trips like a little kid in a candy store.  He loved those trips, and because of that, so did we. Christmas, too, was always a special time for the Tanner family.  As I look back across the years, even if I didnít realize it as a child, the true power of Christmas for me has always been found in those Christmas Eves that we spent together.  If it wasnít putting on a family Christmas pageant before we could open the gifts, it was singing too many Christmas carols out of the songbooks that Grandad had picked up at Shoneyís, his favorite breakfast restaurant.

    Christmas Eve arrived a little differently that year.  I had been visiting Grandad consistently since I had gotten back from school.  I made an effort to go over and sit with him just about every other day or every third day at the very least.  He was dying.  This I knew, but somehow we all still managed to make it through that last Christmas with our grandad, with smiles on our faces.  I donít know how.  Maybe it was for him.  Maybe it was for Granny.  Or maybe it was for ourselves, because we had luxury of countless memories of so many warm holidays to get us through.  We had a familyÖnot just any familyÖa family with whom we had shared so much, a family who sincerely loved being together, who grew together, who seemed to have some unspoken bond that existed long before I was ever bornÖand a yet family that would have never reached its full potential without the strength of its nucleus. I think in a way those smiles that we all managed to find that night were at least partially smiles of thanks for Granny and Grandad, and what they had been for usÖI know mine was.

    I continued for the rest of my Christmas break to visit Grandad, as he grew increasingly worse.  At the end of each visit Iíd tell him Iíd be back soon, and as Iíd walk out of the room, I would turn around and blow him a kiss.  On the morning of January 17th, I walked into that room, knowing I would not be able to make that promise when I left.  I knew I wouldnít be coming back.  I had to return to Milwaukee, for school was to begin again the next day.  I approached his bed with care and situated myself in a chair right to his left.  He was sleeping.  We sat there for about an hour, Grandad and I, my aunt and Granny.  He slept.  I waited as long as I could.  He slept. ìEmily you really should be going now, you donít want to miss your flight,î Aunt Mary warned. And so-this was it.  The momentÖI had never imagined I would ever be faced with this exact moment in my life; I didnít know what to do or how to say it, anything, if he would hear, if he would know.

    ìTell him goodbye, and that you are going back to school,î Granny delicately urged. Through years of memories, through the most solid feeling of hesitation I have ever felt, I got up out of my chairÖI touched his face, and gently rubbed his arm.  I kissed his aged cheek.  I stared at his dying faceÖand for the first time since I had arrived, his weary eyes slowly opened.  ìIím going back to school now, Grandad,î I said softy.  I kissed him again.  ìI love you.î And with every bit energy in him, he opened his lips. ìI love you,î he whispered backÖand for a moment my heart stopped. I looked into his tired eyes for the few seconds that they stayed openÖand he drifted back into sleep.  I kissed him one last time.  I wanted to hold onto him forever.  But I couldnít. I had to let go. I had to walk out of that room and leave him forever.  And a man who had been there my whole life, who had taught me so much, taught me one last thing in our final moment togetherÖhe taught me the meaning of the words ìI love youî as I had never before known them.

    I left for school that evening knowing that I would be returning home sometime within the next week. Two days later Grandad passed away. In the months that followed, I couldnít so much as think of my grandad, his death, that final moment that we shared, without at least tearing up.  But time went on, as it always does.

    Almost a year to the day of our final goodbye, I boarded another planeÖthis time headed for England where I was to study for four and a half months.  I stepped onto the European soil in the cold of January, for the first time ever, to begin my process of self-discovery.  I thought a lot about the past year of my life, the loss, the sadness, the things I had to be thankful forÖall the cliché ideas that go along with ìfinding oneself.î  I was taking a course on Comparative World Religions, in which we engaged in countless numbers of discussions about afterlife, heaven, and salvation.  In that time, I thought of Grandad a lot.

    When he died, my family, including myself, was comforted by the numerous friends that came to mourn with us, with the words we have all heard: ìHeís not suffering anymore, heís at peace, heís happy, heís with GodîÖand most comforting at those times, ìYouíll meet him again someday.î  In a Christian society, this is how we deal with deathÖwe are promised that our loved ones are watching over us, that they are happy somewhere in a place that we canít quite comprehend, that weíll see them again someday, when we too are released from this world.  Iíve searched myself time and again, I did at that time, I continue to do so now. Will I ever meet Grandad again?  It seems so foolishly hopeful, and maybe I am just another blind product of my society, subjecting to a religion, which is no more than ìan opium of the people.î  Was Marx right?  Is the image of an afterlife merely a tool to dull our pain?  I have no answers.  I struggle to find a place where I can say I stand, but I am lost.  I miss Grandad.

    To say even one hello that night was like trying to take a step through quicksand, for one thing I could focus on was my lat goodbye . That was all that mattered.

    I can only hope that somewhere along this path I find my answers, my hope, my own personal truth, and learn to cope with the religious ideals of our society, learn to trust them, or to trust myself, learn to find faith in something, or restore the faith that I received when I was first baptized at five months oldÖbut in the meantime I think of a time when I was about fifteen and Grandad was over at my house.  We were debating some issueÖjust what, I cannot seem to remember, but I was convinced that I was right.  In a joking tone I told him, ìJust wait until you die, I will of course visit your grave all the time, and one day I will put a note on your grave saying that I am rightÖand this time you wonít be able to argue back.î  Granny and Grandad both laughed at this, thinking it was pretty amusingóI thought I was pretty clever.  I have always remembered that comment, and in the years before his death, I began to regret it.  As he was dying, I thought about itÖit was all a joke back thenÖwhat a horrible thing I had said.  Now looking back, I know differently.  If I could meet with Grandad again and have that same conversation, I would say the exact same thingÖand I know that he would laugh again.  That is how I know I still have my grandadÖwith or without heaven.  He is inside of me, and no God and no religion will ever change that. He is here.