The Sound of Life

This story the contains death of a loved one.

My whole world consisted of the ragged breaths of the man laying on the bed. I sat next to him for hours, unmoving. 

Inhale. Pause. Exhale. Pause. 

Sometimes the pause took too long, and I would lean forward to see if I could hear the movement of air. It seemed as though even my heart stopped beating at those times. I would begin to tremble, and my father's grip on my shoulder would squeeze painfully. And then I would hear the inhale, and it would continue, my heart beating with it.

After what felt like hours, the man opened his eyes and smiled. "Are you tired?" He whispered. His voice was low and soft, and I leaned forward to hear it. It hilted on the r, and I had to blink away tears to keep him from seeing them. 

"No, Grandpa." I said, forcing a smile. I grasped his outstretched hand with my own and traced the bulging, delicate veins with my finger. I could feel the mixed age and wisdom resulting from nearly a century of labor. In these hands were my childhood. 

The sudden arrival of sweet perfume caused me to look up. My grandmother had arrived, looking at me with teary blue eyes. She wrapped her arms around me and I leaned into her. That sweet perfume, the smell of carnations...

That smell had been one of the first smells I'd ever sensed. It had accompanied me through my childhood wanderings, at wonderful mealtimes of my most special memories, and through many of my special accomplishments. That smell was my childhood.

"Honey, why don't you go into the kitchen? I need to be alone with Grandpa now." She said calmly, but the trembling in her arms betrayed her. I looked up at my father, where he stood stoic, as he had for the last several hours. At her words, he seemed to wake up out of a deep slumber of sorrow, and he turned to me and nodded. 

Inhale. Pause. Exhale. Pause. 

Gently kissing the worn and soft wrinkles of my grandfather's hand, I walked numbly out of the room, barely registering the thud of my bare feet against the hardwood floor. Maybe out here I could forget the grief, the pain felt by everyone in that room.

At the sight of the open cupboard doors in the kitchen I paused. I smiled to myself in memory and began to search. There at the top, where I could barely reach, were Grandpa's favorite mint chocolate cookies he wasn't supposed to have (although I always snuck him some when Grandma wasn't looking). There were various other snacks and drinks that had become dear friends. Unpopped popcorn made my mouth water with delight at the thought of the salty, buttery taste. The thin little honey sticks, no wider than my pinky, couldn't help but make me chuckle to myself. Grandma had collected them for me since I was a child, but as I'd gotten older, she'd given them to my brothers instead. Yet that wasn't what I was looking for. 

I pulled out the long, thin bottle of ginger brew and tapped the glass lightly with my nail. My father, who had delayed in following me, looked up from the hallway and smiled weakly. 

"Would you like some?" I asked sweetly, putting on the doe eyes I knew always won him over.

"I'd love some." He said wearily, and sat down on the bar stools in front of the kitchen island. 

I poured us both a glass and topped it with three ice cubes, just like Grandpa always liked. I relished the sizzling pops of the ice and carbonated drink and the spicy-sweet scent of the ginger brew. Together we drank. 

The chilled spicy liquid rushed down my throat and quenched thirst I didn't know I had. 

This taste was my childhood, long afternoons on a sunny porch talking with family members.

My father said little now. "Stay out here for a little while." He told me softly, but I could see by the firmness in his eyes he fully meant it. 

I stood there alone, the empty glass in my hands, trying not to cry as I looked at the empty bottle.

Holding my breath, I could still hear it, in time with the giant grandfather clock. 

Inhale. Pause. Exhale. Pause. 

I fled out of the kitchen, hoping to escape the unsteady breaths. I ran through the long hallway, the old boxes of toys, the great dining table, and Grandpa's leather sitting chair.

I thrust open the door and sprinted down the steps. Perhaps I could feel at peace out here. 

Yet now memories lurked everywhere. On the porch I saw my family laughing, drinking ginger brew, and talking long into the dark. Near my little sand pit I saw my Grandfather moving the bricks and boards of wood and refilling it with sand into it. In the barn I found the long-untouched golf cart that embodied long walks at twilight and my introduction to the world of driving. In the chicken coop, Grandpa stood there with one hand full of feed and the other full of eggs. Even walking down to the trash bin, he was walking beside me, keeping me safe from the howling wolves at night. In the wild expanse of acres that surrounded their home, he was always on the porch watching me, waiting for me to come back and tell him about my adventures. 

I finally sat on the bench underneath the giant elm tree until the crickets began their noisy orchestra and the owls provided vocal accompaniment. By the time I heard the first shrill wolf howl that sent a chill down my spine, I could hear the crunching of gravel and saw someone coming towards me.

"Katy?" He shouted. It was my father. 

"Yes?" I called. I got up to go to him but stopped.

I could barely see him but he rushed toward me. I slowly began to realize the way he shuffled as he ran, spraying rocks ahead of him as he did when he was anxious. "Katy." His voice trembled at the end, and it was like a sword struck my heart. I couldn't breathe. I pushed past him and bolted for the house, for the open door and the beautiful light at the end of the tunnel. Tell me it isn't true. It isn't true, I told myself, as the world seemed to spin away from me, and a great darkness seized my very soul. I felt like screaming, but instead ran silently while tears poured down my cheeks.

I burst into my grandparents' bedroom. The lone rose lamp was turned on, illuminating the hunched form of my Grandmother as she bent over the bed. I paused my panicked breaths and strained to listen.

Silence.

I waited longer, desperate. 

Still silence.

My grandmother didn't move. She just stared down at him, as if she was paralyzed.

I moved by her side and leaned over him, my ear brushing his nose.

Silence.

"Do something!" I shouted. "Call 9-1-1! Do something!" I said urgently, tears pouring down my face. The salty taste of the tears hit my tongue and I winced.  

My father came to the doorway. He was quiet, but the light illuminated the tears that slid down his face. He was shaking, trembling, in a way I'd never seen him act before. 

My father walked behind me and squeezed my shoulder, laying two fingers on my grandfather's neck. 

My grandmother suddenly let out a loud sob and fell on Grandpa's chest. "John." She cried. "Oh, John."

My father withdrew his hand from my grandfather's neck and pressed it to his mouth. I looked up at him and saw him cover his eyes and begin to sob in a way I'd never seen since my sister had died. His chest heaved.

With both expressions of grief it seemed that I went into paralysis myself. Looking at them both, I felt as though they were strangers, and I had no idea who they were.

I turned and fled out the room, through the door, and into the night.

Let the wolves find me, I thought, I can't care less.

---

It seemed like hours later before my father joined me on the porch.

He sat next to me in the chair where I sat unmoving. My tears had long since dried, now I just sat there numb, hating everyone and everything. 

For a long time he said nothing. After a few minutes he placed an arm around my shoulder.

"When does it stop hurting?" I asked finally, my own voice sounding foreign to me, hoarse and hard.

He placed a hand on my knee and squeezed it gently. "It always hurts. But we can have peace about it." His voice was low and hoarse, but strong.

"Because he's in a better place?" I said, trying to repel the sarcasm. I'd said that very thing myself to many people. Now it sounded empty. 

He simply nodded. "Jesus died for us so we can have everlasting life. We'll see Grandpa again." He paused for a long moment. "But I wanted to to tell you the last thing he did. Remember how Grandma told him he'd tell her when he saw the angels?"

I nodded mutely, focusing hard on not crying again. 

"Right before he passed, he opened his eyes wide and smiled. And then he did this." My father breathed in deeply. He held the breath and then exhaled slowly. 

I blinked away tears. "He saw them."

My father rubbed my shoulder. "He did. But do you know what else?"

I shook my head. 

"When you inhale." he explained. "That's the beginning of life, like when you're a baby. But when you exhale, that's when you leave the earth and go to be with Jesus. That pause is the struggle, the in-between of death and life. Our first breath sentenced us to death on this earth, and our last breath is the first breath of our new life. We live in that pause. It's up to us to make the most of that time we have, that pause, before we exhale."

"I don't understand." I said quietly. A cold tear rolled down my face and fell in my lap.

My father gently grasped my hands and leaned over, looking at me fully with shining brown eyes full of love. His voice was warm, strong, and soft as he said, "Live in the pause, honey. Live in the pause."

---

Inhale. Pause. Exhale. Pause. 

My seven-year-old son buried his face into my sweater. I held him tenderly as he sobbed, my own tears running down my face. 

"Hey." I said, pulling up his chin. He looked at me, sweaty brown curls stuck to his forehead and brown eyes filled with tears. "Johnny."

Johnny inhaled jaggedly before beginning another sob. I pressed a finger to his mouth.

"It's alright, honey. We'll see Grandpa again."

"How do you know that?" Johnny cried, burying his head in my sweater again.

I wrapped him in my arms. "Because Jesus told me."

"He did?" Johnny looked up at me again, his words stuttering as he blinked at me with hope shining in his little eyes.

I nodded. "A long time ago, when my Grandpa went to be with Jesus. Jesus told me through your Grandpa."

He scrunched up his nose at me. "I don't understand."

I kissed his little forehead. "My Grandpa stopped breathing, so I continued his breath. Everything he's taught me lives in me, so he keeps living forever. I make the most of the life I've been given." I nodded over at the quiet man lying next to us. "You can make Grandpa live forever on Earth too."

His little eyebrows furrowed together. "I don't understand how."

I hugged him close. "By doing everything he's told you." I pulled him onto my lap and held his face against mine, rubbing my finger against his smooth little cheek. I then looked down at my father, who was lying quietly on the bed. "I love you." I breathed, blinking away the tears. The salty taste once again stung my tongue.

My father opened his soft brown eyes and smiled at me.

Inhale. Pause. Exhale.-