sometimes i live in the country
sometimes i live in town
sometimes i take a great notion
to jump into the river and drown
irene, goodnight, irene goodnight
goodnight irene, goodnight irene
i'll see you in my dreams

-the weavers-

My grandfather Penn has been on my mind lately. I'm not sure why exactly, it's not close to his birthday or the day he died, not close to any major family event or holiday. But I have found, over the years since he died, that when I'm closing in on a choice, or struggling with a problem, or even fighting myself, he comes to the front of my conscious. I don't believe in heaven, or big scary ghosts, or in much for that matter. But I think that, when I need him, he's here. The idea of him, my memories, act as a canary in the mine for me, and I know that changes are stirring when his image pops up in my mind's eye. It's not like I can see him next to me--we're not living in a Patrick Swayze movie here, people--but more like I can imagine what he would say or the advice he would give, and take it even without actually hearing it. I remember his hugs, so strong and sweet--always sitting. He never hugged much when he was standing. I do remember him taking me by the shoulders on nights when we visited, and planting a kiss on my cheek with bristly white stubble. So even though he's gone from me, I still have him. And that's a comfort.

My grandfather was a principled, opinionated, strong man. He loved his grandchildren passionately. He was loyal and faithful to his wife of 60-some years to the end, and he had three sons who are all kind, smart, good men. In his convictions and his humor, the wise outlook on life that he had developed by the time I knew him, I learned a great deal about existing in the world. He had this way of looking at each of his grandchildren as a whole fully formed human being even before we were considered adults. He was happy to let each of us be simply who we were. My grandfather handed out books the way a kleptomaniac steals: compulsive, quick, without thought. He would see one of us glancing at a book and whoosh bam! It was ours to take home. The first time he gave me one I asked if he was sure. "Dahrling," he said, "I've already read it. And I loved it. You will too." He wrote me letters once I entered high school, asking about my studies and my friends, talking to me about politics and the changes in our country. Around the time of 9/11 he wrote to me and said, "take faith, Amela. Don't look at what everyone sees, see what's really there, and don't forget that men are evil in every color just as men are good in every color. Remember that people are essentially good."

In him was the heart of our family. With him came the family home in Three Arrows, Putnam County, New York, a part of a commune type organization that my father and uncles grew up in every summer, a community where we could walk around and people would greet us by saying, "you're a Melnick! Say hello to your grandfather and grandmother." With him came a place to belong. After he died it became clear that my grandmother couldn't live in this house by herself, and a wrenching decision was made to sell it. We can always go back and stay, Three Arrows will always be a home, but that part, the stilted house with high beams and wicker chairs and a huge sitting rock out back, that part is gone. And since he went, taking it with us, I have seen my family drift, just slightly. It was if he was our rudder.

I remember his hands, carving frogs and faces and walking sticks out of scraps, creating something out of nothing. I remember his voice telling my grandmother to leave me alone, that I was fine and knew perfectly well what I wanted to have for breakfast, thank you very much. I remember him doing his hat trick on the dock, winking sideways and basking in the giggles and squeals of kids--first his grandkids, then dock kids, and finally his great grandkids. I remember him sitting in our bedroom telling us stories and singing songs he'd made up for his sons, years ago. I remember how passionate he was about equality. How he was so proud when my brother joined a union at work; how he would have been so proud when I did. I remember how he would smile when we were all sitting around the table, how every once in a while he would get quiet and still and just watch us all. He wasn't a perfect man. No such thing, as he would say.

But in the nights when I am wandering a little, or a lot; during the days when every choice I make goes through my own third degree, he seems to bring me strength. Not even strength. I get that from a myriad of people and places. No, my Zada brings to me a confidence that everything will be alright. In the silent places between love and doubt, he reminds me that "I'm not lost. I'm right here."

I miss him.