February 17th is a complex day. It’s my brother’s birthday, and it’s the anniversary of my grandfather’s death. So today I went through the day wondering how my brother would celebrate his birthday, whether the package had arrived for him yet, and how this new year would treat him. But then, as the sun set, I started remembering Grandpa.

I remember one summer when I was maybe 12, maybe 13, and I spent the week before the big family reunion out at Grandpa and Grandma’s house on the lake, helping them prepare for 5 families to descend on their grounds. Grandma was the general, no, the commander in chief. There were long lists of things to do, and she kept me and Grandpa plowing right on down that list. I particularly remember that we had to mend the screens in the gazebo. As we patched the screens using fishing line and an old set of medical skin-sewing needles, I mimicked the birds that I could hear. All of a sudden, my bird-loving grandpa looked up in surprise and said he hadn’t been able to hear that bird in years. It took us both a minute to realize he could hear my mimicking but not the actual bird itself (his hearing having been damaged in his WWII tank-driving years). So for the rest of the afternoon I would mimic every bird I could and he’d identify them for me as we patched and sewed, patched and sewed.

Later that same week, with the descent of many families looming closer and closer and Grandma’s list still massively long, I remember helping him hang a door between the two bedrooms in their house. From the great room, Grandma called “Honey! Remember you still have to hang that door today!” And my grandpa looked down at me with this gentle smile and a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye and called back, “Yes dear.” Just that. That moment forever defined him for me: patient, gentle, unflappable, happy to share a secret with me.

I remember that twinkle appearing less and less often as he got sicker and sicker. I remember the tired frustration as he lost the ability to communicate with us. I remember dreading our last Christmas, when we knew that he couldn’t live much longer, and I remember hating myself for that dread.

I remember his funerals, too, and wondering how any of us would have the stamina to get through both of them. I remember wondering how I could have gone for so many years and not realized just how sad the 23 psalm could be. And I remember avoiding looking at my grandma, avoiding seeing her so unsure of herself, so grey, so much like charred paper that had curled into itself.

What I can’t remember is his voice. The MSA altered that for so many years before he lost it entirely that I cannot pry its sound into my memory no matter how hard I try. I’ve been told he had a clear tenor voice. I’ve been told he was a wonderful singer. More than any other thing about him, I wish I could remember his voice.