how much is real

My aunts, Raechka and Sima and uncle Boris came to visit, like they usually do and the house was frantic with cleaning and smells escaping from the kitchen that made one weak in the knees. When they arrived, the walls echoed with excited talk.

My dad had cooked up a storm. Many Russian salads. Too much heart in every plate. And we dont like the dryness of turkey so he always tries to do something creative and this time he made a turkey lasagna that was gobbled up with the cranberry sauce before one cay sanything. And they drank way too many shots from the small bottle of vodka my bro had bought in Kiev. And soon enough they were red and giggling and they were exclaiming for more "bulkee" and i watched and I smiled. Because this is me. This table with the silly jokes and yummy food and loving family. This is me.

My uncle raised a glass for grandpa. I had meant to do the same. And we all raised our glasses [me with my long glass of water] and our faces were pale with memories and thoughts and god, i wish he was here. he should be here.

6 years ago.

The memory is as lucid as ever behind my eyelids. Even if I tried, I could never forget it.

I had been so upset with my mom. She had left to go to the nursing home without me. She didnt bring me, when i told her distinctly that I had wanted to see him. [maybe it was fate. Maybe i was never meant to see him.] And right as I started yelling at my dad for letting mom go without me, the phone rang. "Come quickly." They said.

And I remember this silence. No one said a word. Not one word. Somehow we all managed to all get into the car in this silence. Maybe we were all praying. I remember driving down Hope street with all the little stores lit up and the sky was dark with stars and you couldnt see many, but I found one. One was good enough. And I made a wish. "Please dont let us be too late." I said quielty with lips barely moving, and my breath fogged the window.

We were all scared to look at one another. I dont remember parking. I dont remember entering the building. But I remember the elevator. It felt forever. I remember the lit up numbers and the ding and the ding and where was the ding we wanted to hear?

We walked fast. And I dont remember the hallway. I dont remember anything except entering that room and he looked different. He looked so different. And my uncle. The one who was tall and strong and he just burst into this crying hysteria. There must have been 10 of us in this one tiny room with ugly wallpaper. And we were crying. And my uncle said "for pete’s sake, put the blanket over him." And I just remember just this loud hoar of crying in my ears and my heart was not in my chest, i swear. It was not there. It had jumped out and crashed into an ocean of tears. And my brother was banging the walls. And my mom and my aunt just stood by his bedside. And. I dont remember how I got home. I dont remember anything else. But that moment. I couldnt sleep for days. I kept seeing that face on my grandpa.

The nurse had said that he kept breathing, even when his start stopped.

The last time I had seen my grandpa was the day before he died. The last words I ever heard him say were "I need to live."

He had a tumor in his brain, broken stomach, kidneys and lungs.  And with each failure, the doctors would give him days and he would prove them all wrong.

I miss my dedushka yasha. He was that kind of guy who was in his mid 80’s and still giving up his chair for the lady in the room. He was the kind of person who would invite complete homeless people in the house, even though they brought sickness. He was the kind of person that had survived the Holocaust. He was a fighter. An optomist. One of those, against all odds kind of people.

I miss him. Maybe it doesnt occur to me every day. But then there are some moments, where I think, hmm dedushka would have liked this. Or Id think, What would dedushka do in this situation?

If i am thankful for anything this thanksgiving. It is for knowing my grandpa. I have memories of him. He is the only grandparent I ever knew. And I wish so many people didnt take their grandparents for granted. So please. Do me a favor. Dont take them for granted. Hear their stories. Give them hugs. Call them. Theyre cool. I promise.

As devastating as Thanksgiving was 6 years ago. I usually concentrate on the happy small memories of grandpa. He used to have these big glasses and we used to have this big ugly orange couch and he’d sit there reading his newspapers and i remember his big thumbs would stick out and he couldnt just read quietly. I would always yell at him to read to himself. He always would mumble the newspaper out loud. When we had a cat, the cat used would jump on top of the couch and lick his bald spot and he didnt mind. He walked around with an extra shiny baldspot. He loved watching American Soap Operas and when i was around, I would sit in the room and translate them for him. But he claimed he knew the plot without my translation. He used to run away to walk to parks and my mom would get upset with him because he would take naps on benches. He loved the garden and he once stole a whole bunch of flowers from somewhere and planted them in the back. They are still growing. He would give the best massages. When i was younger he would tell stories while he paraded his fingers down my back. He would call everyone his favorite. I was his "favorite grand daughter."

I miss him.