holding conversation

“Being able to hold a conversation is one of the greatest talents a person can possess,” my Grandpa told me.

I have thought about those words, and Grandpa, every day that I have been in Senegal.

Until he was put in hospice care in March of 2012, my Grandpa was just my Grandpa. He lived many states away, he sent me advent calendars at Christmas, we visited. And he was my Grandpa and of course I loved him and was glad for his presence, but we didn’t really know each other.

The first few months he was in hospice, he remained just my Grandpa. But then I was preparing to leave for Kenya and his health declined and no one thought he would make it through the seven weeks I would be gone so I left school early and I drove 10 hours through the mountains and I sat by his bedside, preparing to say goodbye.

And in those few days, we discussed my love for Kenya, we discussed his love for Ireland, we discussed colonization and ethnic tension and the challenges for girls in impoverished countries and throughout the world, we discussed my aspirations and we discussed the things he was proud of having accomplished in his life. We held conversation. And he told me: “being able to hold a conversation is one of the greatest talents a person can possess.”

And as we said goodbye he said: “I’m grateful I had the chance to get to know you.” And I was, and am, grateful, too.

The seven weeks passed and Grandpa made it through and I drove the 10 hours again to sit by his beside, saying hello again. I showed him pictures and told him stories and answered his questions of curiosity and felt grateful for his sincere interest and grateful for his pride in me and grateful for the conversation.

And after that, we were connected. At any chance I got during school, I drove the 10 hours through the mountains to sit by his bedside and hold a conversation. We discussed my studies, we discussed his former work and what books he was grateful to have read, we discussed the challenges and joys I face in Kenya and we discussed how he always wished he had made it to Africa and when, as I sat by his bedside, he learned of his wife dying, we discussed suffering and comfort and the skill and need for others to be present to it. We held a conversation.

And sometimes it wasn’t so much a need for a worded conversation, but for a presence. I picked out ties for him to wear at her funeral when we put him on a gurney and drove in an ambulance and wheeled him into the service. I held his hand as we sang his and her favorite songs and read their favorite, psalm 23. I sat with him and brought him cheese and crackers and made jokes about how much he hated coffee when the busy-ness after a death set in and overwhelmed him. I kissed his cheek and told him: “see you next time.”

And the next time, when we thought there were days remaining and I rushed onto a train and then into a car to drive the 10 hours through the mountains, I took his hand and he said: “I’m glad you could make it.” And I said: “me, too.” This time, the words were less but we discussed his happiness, despite all of the struggle, because we were coming out of the year having recreated and fortified connections with family, we discussed his deep pride in my mother, his daughter, we discussed how it didn’t matter what else was happening or how many papers I was required to be writing, that I was happy to be just there, where I needed and wanted to be.

And the next time, the last time, I drove the 10 hours through the mountains and I knew. And I took his hand and sat by his bedside and brought his favorite, tapioca pudding and we discussed the mechanics of old elevator shafts and how he enjoyed watching the memories of his life float by him like flipping through a photo album. And when there were no more words, we as a collective of children, friends, and grandchild, sat by his bedside and held his hands and held a conversation: “it’s okay, you can go. We’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. You’re at peace, we’re here. You can go now. Just float, be at peace.”

“Being able to hold a conversation is one of the greatest talents a person can possess,” my Grandpa told me.

So much of my life and experience in Senegal seems to be centered on conversation. Conversation over dinner and tea with Pappa, conversation with Corine and Nana as we prepare food and do the housework, conversation with my British brother as we watch the sun set from the rooftop, conversation with the neighbor each morning as I make my way to school, conversation with the guards who only know me by my Senegalese name and speak to me in a mix of four languages, conversation with friends as we process and reflect, conversation.

And each time I come away from this conversation, both the most commonplace and the most honest, I am reminded of Grandpa. And I miss him. I miss our conversation, our presence to each other.

But I feel as if he’s with me, in each shared word, in each shared silence, in each conversation. And I think that makes the conversation that much more cherished, that much more significant to my time here.

“Being able to hold a conversation is one of the greatest talents a person can possess,” my Grandpa told me.