The Goodbyes We Never Get to Say

Ashley McPhie

He collapsed on the brick patio attached to his house. Only seventy-two, he had been up late watching the news on television before he stepped outside under the Minnesota stars. Inside, only the dogs were there to notice his absence. I think he knew something wasn’t right. Maybe he believed the crisp, autumn air would help the fluttering in his chest. Somehow, in the moment of his fall, the loop of his jeans snagged on the foot-tall iron gate that enclosed the patio, which was minuscule compared to the acreage of the property. With the numerous old machines and small buildings, the farm was a time capsule perfectly preserved. He had taken pride in the neatness of his land. Every object—barn, shed, swing set, playhouse, and tractor—was meticulously placed to create a balance in his corner of the universe. It was a haven where even the direction the grass was mowed mattered. Perhaps he went outside that night to say goodbye to the farm. My grandpa often spoke of how he wanted to die on the land he had given his life to—the land that saw him take his last breath. He fell, the gate fell, and with that, the once-balanced universe came crashing down.

Earlier that evening, nearly seven hundred miles west, I sat alone on the gray shag carpet of my dorm room. I was a new college student on the campus I was to call home for the next several months. I spent most of my time at the gym or in class. Only three days into classes, I had the random urge to call my grandparents. I thought I was being an angel of a granddaughter and dialed the phone more for their sake than my own. My dad’s parents answered on almost the first ring. We talked about everything from my roommate’s shyness to the excessive number of onions the cafeteria was so determined to use. By the time my phone flickered to signal the end of the call, it was eight in the evening. Knowing the time was an hour later in Minnesota, I decided against calling my mom’s parents.

I will regret that decision for the rest of my life.

~

The day after I found out my grandpa had passed away, I traveled to Minnesota with my family for the funeral later in the week. Soon enough, the tar of the highways transformed into dirt roads. Old wooden telephone poles lined the road, serving as a resting point for the crows that frequented the area. When their dark wings took to the sky, the landscape transformed into a quilt of green and gold acres of soybean fields and cornfields. Eventually our van came to rest at the end of my grandpa’s quarter-mile long, gravel driveway. 

Outside, children screamed and ran around the playground that my grandpa had continued to update nearly every year with a swing that swung higher than the one before. Red and yellow plastic tricycles raced across the small cement pad outside the garage. The farm had been my favorite escape when I was younger. The entire property could be spotted miles away by the grove of trees that not only protected the farm from the wind, but also served as a great jungle to be explored by the youth. There was a playhouse equipped with fake stoves and fridges my grandpa built for my mother and her sisters, now hidden by tall grass. The white paint of the structure had chipped away, yet each of their initials could still be distinguished. Pots and pans littered the floor, and if a visitor looked close enough, they could picture the many “meals” prepared there. Scattered sheds, tractors, doghouses, and hen houses stood throughout the property as a reminder of my grandpa’s constant love to tinker and build. No project was ever for him, but for his family and community. 

Inside, the house was filled with aunts, uncles, cousins, and second cousins. I only knew half of them. Tables were covered with Midwestern love: an assortment of bowls, pans, and an army of crock-pots. The pantry was filled with his favorite cereal—Malt-O-Meal. His shirts hung in the laundry room. His shoes were located by the door. His favorite chair sat empty. Everything was there, but him.

His shirts hung in the laundry room. His shoes were located by the door. His favorite chair sat empty. Everything was there, but him.

It was his absence that made the thoughts pound inside my head. Down in the living room I saw the Scooby-Doo pillow I used at his house every time my grandpa let us sleep over. What if I had called him that night? I brushed my teeth and could smell the soap he used. Would I have been on the phone with him when his heart gave out? I walked past the laundry room and saw the old basin sink he had bathed me in when I was a baby. Would I have been able to call for help quickly enough? The kitchen smelled of the Folgers he poured in his cup every morning. Could I have said, “I love you” one more time? 

~

The air on the day of the fall funeral was bitter cold. The cemetery itself seemed to be part of an entirely different world. I couldn’t see how that world and my world would ever fuse together. I think I had a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, or maybe that was someone’s coat they had lent me. 

My mother’s cousin Sam was at the funeral. Sam had recently lost her mother, and she had all the steps of bereavement laid out for the family.   

Step one: Say goodbye.

Step two: Listen to every song that brings the hardest sobs. 

Step three: Scream at the sky and demand “why?”

Step four: Pretend that everything is okay. 

Step five: Live your life knowing it really isn’t okay. 

Sitting at the funeral, I felt stuck. How was I supposed to reach step five if I could never complete step one? Looking at my mother’s broken form farther down the row of chairs, I watched her jump from step three to step five, back to step one and four all within seconds. 

I watched my grandpa’s siblings cry for him. I watched the way his daughters wept. I felt those same tears slide down my frozen cheeks. I watched friends share sorrowful hugs. I watched his first wife—my grandma—struggle with having to appropriately monitor her grief for the man she once loved. I watched my grandpa’s now-widowed wife cry for her lost piece of forever. I watched my little cousin, who had been the one to find my grandpa’s body the next morning, weeping in her mother’s arms. She was only eleven.

The truth is, funerals aren’t really for the dead, but for the living. We traveled hundreds of miles to say goodbye to someone who wasn’t even there anymore. Standing there in front of his grave brought me no closer to my grandpa. Instead, I stood with my hand inside my mother’s. I hugged my little cousin. I gave a weak smile to my grandma. I was there to support my family, and for them to support me. My family gathered to acknowledge we weren’t the only ones hurting. We found each other so at the same time we could get lost in the “remember whens.” Remembering my grandpa through the stories couldn’t bring him back, but it helped ease the pain in some way. 

The evening after the funeral, my mom and I went out to my grandpa’s patio. Looking up into the same sky that had held his last breath, I began to hate and fear that darkness and every star above. For months after I avoided gazing at the night sky. It made it too hard to breathe. 

How can some nonexistent action—some phone call that never rang—cause so much pain? Looking back, I don’t believe that “random urge” to call my loved ones was so accidental. We as humans are given countless opportunities and choices throughout our days. Regardless of how big or small those choices may be, it is our job to sort, rank, and complete the choices in such an order based on what we see as having the highest precedence. Whether or not we complete one task or another is entirely up to us. While we often have little control over what is thrown into our daily lives, we do have control over which tasks we give our time to. Though I hadn’t known it then, my heart had been given an opportunity to say a last goodbye to my grandpa, and I brushed it off.  Doing nothing had been my choice that night.

~

On the drive back, I thought of the hundreds of photos and handful of videos I had seen of my grandpa in the past week. There was a six-second clip that had been played at his viewing. The sun dipped low in the sky as he rode an old, green 7800 Oliver combine he had recently fixed up. He waved toward the camera. A huge smile plastered across his face as he drove the tractor across the video frame. I had thought about the person who filmed the video—some friend or family member. If they had known the final destination of the video, would they have changed anything? Would they have waited a second more to quit recording? Would they have filmed it from a different angle? Would they have been able to film it at all?

~

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and knowing that, I can’t imagine how much a video would be worth. Yet, I would trade video after video if that meant I could have one last conversation with my grandpa. Instead, I have a voicemail he left my mom nearly two weeks before he passed away. I sometimes find myself listening to this voicemail late in the evening on random nights when I’m missing him the most.

“Hi babe, it’s just Dad and Deb,” my grandpa’s voice rings out.

I can picture him and his wife Deb in his ancient white Ford. The tiny truck has velvet gray jump seats in the back that I dreamed about sitting on whenever we came to visit in my youth. He used to let me accompany him into town to the laundromat in that very truck. My small seven-year-old frame would take up the entire back of the cab of the vehicle. I would be giddy knowing I got to sit in the “secret seat.”

“We’re just going for a little drive. Thought we would call and wish you a happy birthday.” 

Deb then cut in with a sing-song voice. “Happy Birthday!”

My grandpa believed in enjoying the beautiful fields of Minnesota. He and Deb would drive up and down those dirt roads in the evenings. A Midwestern farmer to the core, he found joy in watching the golden corn husks grow into the sky. 

“Enjoy your day and have fun with the kiddos. You’ll have to let us know when Ashley’s going to school. All right, babe, love you.”

Each time, I let it play at least twice, but I never make it through once without crying. No matter how many times I shout goodbye at the sky, I know for now, the closest I can get to a conversation with him is found in this voicemail.

I came back to campus, leaving behind the only people who knew how badly I was hurting, to find that while I was only gone for seven days, a year’s worth of friendships, heartbreaks, and parties had happened without me. I barely knew anyone; there was no shoulder for me to lean on here. My roommate didn’t know how to console me. She barely even knew my last name. Most nights she was in her friends’ dorm, leaving me on my own in our small box of a room. I looked forward to an evening of practice with my teammates. Even if that meant just being surrounded by people, I was ready for the distraction. I had scrimmaged with them for the first three days of the semester, and they composed my “new family,” as my coach put it. But I walked onto the court and was promptly asked by the girls, “Did you just join the team?” I had never felt so unseen.

I had hoped the exercise would replace thoughts of my grandpa with thoughts of basketball. Instead, I repeatedly made bad passes. I airballed my shots and even dribbled the ball out of bounds. I both looked and felt like I didn’t belong on the court. I wanted to run back to those corn fields and get lost in the stalks. I wanted to go back and call my grandpa that night.

~

Yet, I do believe I killed something–maybe not him, but a piece of me.

I never got to answer my grandpa to tell him that I had moved onto campus and started classes. If I had caved into that urge to call him, could I have had the chance to save a life or at least say goodbye? Here’s the thing: deep down, I know my decision didn’t break the balance of the universe. My choice not to call him neither saved nor killed my grandpa. Yet, I do believe I killed something—maybe not him, but a piece of me. This piece of me is now terrified of the next goodbye. I say goodbye to my friends and my chest tightens. I say goodbye to my little brothers and I can’t breathe. I say goodbye to any of my loved ones and immediately tears prick my eyes. With all that pain, I feel like every goodbye is a punishment. Despite being scared of missing another goodbye, I find fear within every greeting as well. I know with every hello I utter, there is always a goodbye that must follow. Each person says, “It’s okay. We’ll see you again soon.” How do you know? How do you know those stars in the sky won’t take you, too?

God, I wish I would have made that call.