My Grandfather is Alive

I went to the movie theatre a few months age, and sat in row H, seat 18.  At a given point in the film, I find myself speaking to my grandfather.  As this event unfolds, I close my eyes and can see him.  I share with him a recent sorrow. As tears stream down my face, there is stillness and a calm I've rarely known.  Then, just as quickly, the experience is over, dispersed like the mist on the Saint John harbour.

 
My grandfather died over five years ago.  For those few precious moments it felt so good to be sitting beside him again.  Since my earliest days I would say, "Let me sit beside Poppy, Dad."  It was the gleam in his eye, his impish laughter when teasing me and his inimitable storytelling (assisted, of course, by Nanny, filling in any missed details).
 
A few days after this encounter, I am celebrating Mass on a Saturday night at the French parish in Fredericton.  During communion the choir sings Les Mains Ouvertes Devant Toi, Seigneur (My Hands Are Open Before You, Lord).  It is the one French song my grandfather used to sing.  It is my first time hearing the song in church and I am distributing holy communion when they begin to sing.  Tears gently crest my cheek as I say the closing prayers of the Mass.  
 
There is one final experience.  I am dropping off documents to police headquarters in uptown Saint John. Parking is always a nightmare, so I pull in to a near-empty liquor store two blocks away from the station.  In my walk over, I pass an apartment building where two workers are replacing the building’s siding.  It is windy and they are several stories up.  Not wanting to get impaled by fallen siding, I make my way hurriedly.  I finish the necessary paperwork and return, passing gingerly underneath, glancing up uneasily, then back to the street.  As my eyes refocus, I casually note that there are some tourist-types walking by.  The cruise ships are in, I whisper to myself. 

I see an old man walking the sidewalk. Not a tourist, that much is clear; he has white hair, is thin and is dressed an ounce above shabby.  I am about to turn my attention away, when something in his  manner strikes me as very familiar.  In a flash, I see my grandfather crossing the street towards me, extending his hands.  I hear him utter my name clearly and distinctly, “Aaron.” Hearing my name spoken with warmth in his unmistakable cadence, my lungs immediately constrict and tears well up.  A moment later, the scene passes from my eyes.  I look back to see an old man shuffling down the street, his overcoat shrinking, as the distance between us widens.