pieces of a hole

A year ago my family gathered together to celebrate my grandfather's 90th birthday; half a year later, we lost him. A number of circumstances like the imminent arrival of my second child and the lack of a funeral prevented me from properly mourning him. Now, as I prepare to move across the world without many of the blocks I have used to construct my life, this is my first farewell. I loved this man. The only father I knew, I looked to him for guidance and instruction, solidity and stability. He was always there sitting on a worn armchair in the home I grew up in as I travelled from place to place making my uncertain way through life.
My memory builds him from the ground up; worn black slippers, orange socks, brown polyester pants from an earlier incarnation, now slightly too large and held up with blue and grey button-down suspenders, a white linen pocket hanky used to make jumping mice or blow noses large or small, layers of shirts: white undershirts, red corduroy collared shirts, knitted green wool vests, a horrible Christmas sweater, a gift from my smaller self and worn religiously despite the jarring colours, those thick glasses, those peaked caps.
I remember him too, as a physical presence; his warmth as I curl up beside him as a small child to laugh at Charlie Brown or listen to a story about 'Rusnell's pasture,' the feeling of his arm over my shoulder as he stands and looks at his garden, at a logpile, or out the window to catch a glimpse of the lake; the light in his eye and his animated smile as he recounts a childhood memory about a train or a farm; as he recalls a particularly good meal at a grand hotel or an out-of-the-way local secret on one of his travels; or weaves a long story about his working life and the good men who showed him kindness along the way.
I invoke him through activities; high tea in a historic setting, a long country drive to look at cows and search for wrought-iron or a good hunk of err-ope, a morning in a bird-blind listening to nature, an afternoon on the balcony watching a thunderstorm, a pre-dinner chore involving perching precariously on a ladder with hands full of some sort of muck, the thwack of spitting wood, the creak of the wheel-barrow up that long hill, the precision of seeds sorted in an egg-carton, an evening in the arm-chair under the reading-light, up into the wee hours finishing a good novel.
He taught by example, and the lessons remain: give due credit, acknowledge the influence of your past in forming your present; take adventures where they come however large or small and be sure to enjoy them; leave early in the morning, bring a pillow; do a thing well and beautifully and with all your focus whatever it may be; embrace life and the world, it is an amazing place and deserves our attention; watch things - ants building, mercury spilling, the wind in treetops; read widely, value education, chase knowledge; act to solve problems, if it's broken - just fix it, build your own solutions from things you have at home; shore up scraps against a crisis; treat yourself to the finer things now and again, drink tea from china.
Grandpa was a good, kind, and intelligent man and aways encouraged, respected, cherished and loved me. We had many adventures together over the 34 years I was privileged to know him, and I miss him almost every day.