The Obituary: The Final Testimony
“Gene- You will be truly missed. Keep an eye on us all. We love you dearly.”
A small black and white picture stares back at me. A middle aged man looks right at me. He has his arm propped up, leaning casually against a government tank. He is wearing a Hawaiian shirt and white shorts that stopped above his bony knees. When I look at this man, I see my father.
Below the picture are the words:
EUGENE EDWARD Ellspermann, Jr. suddenly passed away, Tuesday, July 22, 2008.
I glance at the top left hand of the corner of the newspaper. Santa Monica Daily Press. Wednesday, August 13, 2008. My eyes scroll down to the left column. Obituaries.
“Gene-You will be truly missed. Keep an eye on us all. We love you dearly.”
Those words continue to haunt me. I knew the man’s name to be Eugene. I knew that man to be my grandfather.
Prior to my grandfather’s death, I had not seen him in over a year. The last time I saw him, I did not speak to him.
My family and I were visiting Las Vegas for my younger sister’s volleyball tournament. My grandfather resides in Summerlin, an area just north of Vegas. We were staying downtown at the Golden Nugget and my grandfather came to the hotel to eat breakfast with us. We had only spoken our hellos and goodbyes to each other.
My grandfather and father have a strange way of talking to each other. They don’t converse on the same page and touching on every subject seems to be the goal in mind. My grandfather may inquire on how my father’s job is going. My father will respond about the latest gadget he just purchased. My father will ask about my grandpa’s health. My grandfather will answer on how smart his dog Bear can be. They both have a way of communicating on different levels that made perfect sense to them.
I didn’t know my grandfather. I have lived in Los Angeles my whole life and he had left Santa Monica right after the Northridge earthquake in 94’. I didn’t know him as a grandfather or a father or as a man. I have heard vague recollections of his past. My father reminisces on the days of fishing trips. I only carry awkward moments of seeing my grandfather every few years. He usually called the day after my birthday. He never seemed to know my age. He would ask me how I was doing at school. I would respond talking about my interests and grades. My father always chimed in to brag about my accomplishments. My grandfather usually nodded vaguely at our responses and switched the subject about his past or about his other grandchildren. When my grandfather passed away, my father was a mess.
It was the end of a hot summer in Los Angeles. My parents and younger sister had been vacationing in Palm Springs. They received the call that Grandpa had gone into surgery and he would not stop bleeding. My parents and sister made the drive out to Las Vegas. My father hauled ass and got a speeding ticket in the process. The hospital told my Dad there was very little time left. My father burst into the hospital. My grandfather had been pronounced dead. A tube and machine kept him alive. His body was still, his skin tinged. His right blue eye gazed steadily at my father.
Weeks later my father sat down at our kitchen table. He was struggling to find the right words. He grabbed at his hair in frustration. Constantly scratching out words. Rubbing his eyes. I told him to say what he wanted to say.
“Gene-You will be truly missed. Keep an eye on us all. We love you dearly.”
My father broke down. He sobbed like an abandoned child. I knew he could see his father’s pale blue eyes. The same ones he saw everyday in the mirror. The same eyes I see in my own reflection. I hugged my father in comfort, feeling inadequate and useless. I was sympathetic towards the man who never fully understood his father.
When a person dies, what will the world say about that person? What will loved ones remember? Was there meaning for that life?
We confer importance in different manners. We videotape the birth of our children. We capture fragments of reality through a camera. We compose love poems for significant others. We commemorate the history of humankind from textbooks to film. Yet, in the end, our final public tribute is the obituary.
The final testimony is not written in your words, but rather the people that are left behind with their own shattered memories and moments together with you. On the day of his funeral, my father read the obituary as a part of the concluding farewell. He demonstrated his emotional strength and inner struggle to not falter in his speech. My father’s voice was filled with compassion, love, and regretful sorrow. As my father’s voice faded, an eerie silence filled each of us. Lost in our own thoughts and memories, we stood alone and remembered.
Jennifer Ellspermann
A small black and white picture stares back at me. A middle aged man looks right at me. He has his arm propped up, leaning casually against a government tank. He is wearing a Hawaiian shirt and white shorts that stopped above his bony knees. When I look at this man, I see my father.
Below the picture are the words:
EUGENE EDWARD Ellspermann, Jr. suddenly passed away, Tuesday, July 22, 2008.
I glance at the top left hand of the corner of the newspaper. Santa Monica Daily Press. Wednesday, August 13, 2008. My eyes scroll down to the left column. Obituaries.
“Gene-You will be truly missed. Keep an eye on us all. We love you dearly.”
Those words continue to haunt me. I knew the man’s name to be Eugene. I knew that man to be my grandfather.
Prior to my grandfather’s death, I had not seen him in over a year. The last time I saw him, I did not speak to him.
My family and I were visiting Las Vegas for my younger sister’s volleyball tournament. My grandfather resides in Summerlin, an area just north of Vegas. We were staying downtown at the Golden Nugget and my grandfather came to the hotel to eat breakfast with us. We had only spoken our hellos and goodbyes to each other.
My grandfather and father have a strange way of talking to each other. They don’t converse on the same page and touching on every subject seems to be the goal in mind. My grandfather may inquire on how my father’s job is going. My father will respond about the latest gadget he just purchased. My father will ask about my grandpa’s health. My grandfather will answer on how smart his dog Bear can be. They both have a way of communicating on different levels that made perfect sense to them.
I didn’t know my grandfather. I have lived in Los Angeles my whole life and he had left Santa Monica right after the Northridge earthquake in 94’. I didn’t know him as a grandfather or a father or as a man. I have heard vague recollections of his past. My father reminisces on the days of fishing trips. I only carry awkward moments of seeing my grandfather every few years. He usually called the day after my birthday. He never seemed to know my age. He would ask me how I was doing at school. I would respond talking about my interests and grades. My father always chimed in to brag about my accomplishments. My grandfather usually nodded vaguely at our responses and switched the subject about his past or about his other grandchildren. When my grandfather passed away, my father was a mess.
It was the end of a hot summer in Los Angeles. My parents and younger sister had been vacationing in Palm Springs. They received the call that Grandpa had gone into surgery and he would not stop bleeding. My parents and sister made the drive out to Las Vegas. My father hauled ass and got a speeding ticket in the process. The hospital told my Dad there was very little time left. My father burst into the hospital. My grandfather had been pronounced dead. A tube and machine kept him alive. His body was still, his skin tinged. His right blue eye gazed steadily at my father.
Weeks later my father sat down at our kitchen table. He was struggling to find the right words. He grabbed at his hair in frustration. Constantly scratching out words. Rubbing his eyes. I told him to say what he wanted to say.
“Gene-You will be truly missed. Keep an eye on us all. We love you dearly.”
My father broke down. He sobbed like an abandoned child. I knew he could see his father’s pale blue eyes. The same ones he saw everyday in the mirror. The same eyes I see in my own reflection. I hugged my father in comfort, feeling inadequate and useless. I was sympathetic towards the man who never fully understood his father.
When a person dies, what will the world say about that person? What will loved ones remember? Was there meaning for that life?
We confer importance in different manners. We videotape the birth of our children. We capture fragments of reality through a camera. We compose love poems for significant others. We commemorate the history of humankind from textbooks to film. Yet, in the end, our final public tribute is the obituary.
The final testimony is not written in your words, but rather the people that are left behind with their own shattered memories and moments together with you. On the day of his funeral, my father read the obituary as a part of the concluding farewell. He demonstrated his emotional strength and inner struggle to not falter in his speech. My father’s voice was filled with compassion, love, and regretful sorrow. As my father’s voice faded, an eerie silence filled each of us. Lost in our own thoughts and memories, we stood alone and remembered.
Jennifer Ellspermann
posted by Editorial Staff | 8:20 AM
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