Conversations with grandpa

I have to be called in to go there. I can't go just go because I haven't gone in a while and it's my duty to go. There is no duty. He knows it and I know it. I go whenever I get called to go. Like an invitation but a higher calling.

Today, when I go, the smell of grass is amazing. Maybe Thursdays is grass-cutting day, who knows. I know on Wednesdays they collect all the old flowers and throw them out. They have signs all over stating that. Even a mortuary has a strict schedule. After all, the business of the dead is a serious one since it includes everyone. Yes, everyone.

Besides the amazing grass aroma, the weather is beautiful. Fall is finally coming. There is a charming wind in the air and yet my skin is warmed by the October sun. I think last time I visited him was before I went to Iran...so it's been a while. I feel like a lot has happened since then, for me, more inwardly than outwardly of course.

The inward journey is much more difficult--and exciting.

First thing I do normally is to water his grave with one fresh bottle of Arrowhead Mountain Spring water. Then I sit, cross-legged thanks to my almost-regular yoga practice. God, this place is beautiful. The view of the ocean, the vast sky above...all of it. And of course, he would be there in such a magnificent place. He always had the best of it all, wore the best brands of clothes, drove the best cars and ate the best food.

I can't help but read his gravestone again, something I do every time I go there. It says his name, and then "Beloved Father, Grandfather and Brother." Do people notice that the word "husband" is missing? I do every time. Sometimes we joke about it in our family. Whose decision was it to finally omit that word? And did that person ask my grandmother how she really felt after his death? Did the person ask his other two wives who have passed on? No. That person, in their infinite wisdom, decided that he couldn't be called a "beloved husband" just because he didn't handle the relationships that well.

I don't think that's a strong argument though. One can be a "beloved" even if they screw up a relationship, one can be loved very dearly even if they ended a relationship...love is an amazing limitless phenomenon and defies every rule. Love is a higher calling...

Of course, analyzing his gravestone for the 100th time in 6 and a half years makes me a bit mad. But I can also hear his voice telling me to stop stressing, as he always told me, "You "woory" too much", with an emphasis on the OU sound of word worry.

"Fine", I tell him. Then I smile and look above where the planes are taking off John Wayne Airport. I start counting. At one point, I see three planes.

"Damet Garm Babaee, what a great place you picked to be buried at!"

He smiles. "I am happy you don't eat out much anymore. Cooking is good for you."

I smile. "Thank you for teaching me how to make rice! Remember? One time you forced me to watch you make it. I am still not as good as you were but I am trying."

"Sakht nageer. Life is short. Trust me on that one!", He says. (His sense of humor has improved since his passing. They say that about the other side...)

Then we both laugh. I am thinking one day I will change the gravestone and add the word "beloved husband" on it. I don't tell him that but he can read my mind. Not because he is dead but because he read my mind all the time even then.

It's time to leave. "See you next time. Well, not exactly see you...but you know what I mean..." I say.

"See you...Obama will win by the way." He declares the future.

Wow, now I am having the best day.

And that was my grandfather, Babaee. He was an amazing man, made all the mistakes that humans make and yet lived a full life.