The Last Goodbye

The Last Goodbye
A work in progress.

By Carol Rosenthal
Summer 2010

I looked into his eyes. They were the bluest I had ever seen them and they were moist. I was saying goodbye and he seemed to know what I didn’t – it would be our final goodbye.


One year, on our birthday, we rode the motorcycle to town for breakfast. It was one of my first rides on the bike and I held on for dear life. Yet, having him in front of me assured me I was safe. So I relaxed and made faces at my reflection on his helmet.

I sit and watch home videos. It is Easter and I am running around the yard searching for eggs. Purple pants. Red baseball cap. Curly, blonde hair. Three years old. He is helping me. I seem to be blind to all colorful things, but he has a way of pointing out the eggs and making my small self feel like I found them on my own.

A sunny Saturday and I was home alone, but only because he was next door, looking out for me. I was sitting on my tiny, pink bike with no training wheels, walking it up and down the driveway. Once in a while I could pick my feet up and coast, learning how to balance. He, in his oh-so-familiar grey slacks and white button down shirt, started up a lawn mower. George Jones’ voice coming from the front porch was drowned under the sounds of the mower. He waved and smiled as he drove around the front yard. His smile made me brave. I put my feet on the pedals and rode my bike for the first time that day.

My mom picked me up from college to drive to the hospital. He had just gone through surgery only to find out it was inoperable. I said hello and tried not to cry. I was worried about him, hoping it didn’t show. He smiled at me. I smiled back, begging my tears not to fall. We talked about school, my friends and the fun I was having. Mom said it was time to go back. I leaned, carefully so I didn’t bump the IV tubes, and hugged him. His grip tightened and he whispered in my ear. He said, “I’m so proud of you.”

Hot, humid air surrounded us that August day. My brother was getting married. I watched through the window in the back of the bride room. The guests filed into the church through the back doors. He walked in wearing a suit and a cowboy hat. At the reception, he danced with my new sister-in-law, but not with me. With hurt feelings, I danced with my friends and cousins.

Gathered around the kitchen table, I was trying to win a game of yitch. We’d played a thousand times before, but this was different. I could win if I could just get my hands on a king of hearts. But my brother won. I came in third. He hugged me and said, “Next time!” As I hugged back I thought he might just be the king of hearts I needed.

Every Christmas morning our first phone call would be from him. At 6 a.m. But we didn’t mind. When he came over, he yelled at us to open our gifts faster. He was more excited to see what we were getting than we were. I loved giving him his card each year. I had a contest going with myself. Would this year’s card make him cry like last year’s did? I hoped it would. And it always did. After lunch, he would find a comfortable chair and pass out. Mouth open. Lazy snores came from deep in his throat.

“No, no, don’t go,” he said. But it was time for me to work, time to leave him. I smiled, holding back tears. “It’s ok, Grampa, I’ll be back,” I told him. “Ok. Ok, I love you so much,” he replied. He knew me. He knew I would come back. But he knew he wouldn’t be here. This was it. “I love you, too,” I said, “See you later.”

Later.