I went to visit my grandfather the other day. He’s in one of those “homes”. You know, the “homes”. The ones that seem more like the marriage of college dormitory and penitentiary cell. The farthest thing from a home.

He’s also blind. So, not only was I upset about him hanging out in death’s waiting room, but also the thought of him being without sight, in an unfamiliar surrounding upped the ante of concern.

But anyway, he greeted me with his usual pleasant, Zen-like attitude. He touched my shoulders to see how strong I was, reached for the top of my head to determine my height, and wrapped his arms around my waist to see if I had gained weight. He smiled, and said, “You’re beautiful. Always was a handsome young man. Where’s your girlfriend?”
But granddad’s never seen me. He went blind a month before I was born. I smiled, and said, “Thanks granddad,” avoiding the girlfriend question. Granddad always used his hands-on technique to fondle my lady friends. Height, Strength, Weight. Right.

We talked about Brooklyn, and writing, and whether or not they were treating him right in the “home”. He said they were. I ignored him. They weren’t, even if they were in my mind. He pointed to the wall, and showed me all the family pictures he had taped to the wall. His eight kids, and pictures of his grandkids, like myself, and even his greatgrands were stuck to the classroom–yellow cinderblock. He said the pictures helped him adjust, while digging in his pocket and pulling out a picture of his late wife. “And here’s your grandma. She’s always with me. I feel her spirit,” granddad said, while removing his ray-bans and wiping his glassy eyes. “She’s always here.”

After about two hours, granddad’s cheerful chatter had worn me, and him, out. We laughed and cried, and laughed, and reminisced about me sitting one his lap, while he played the harmonica, and laughed, and I love you’d and now it was time to go. My mother, who was quiet most of the evening, says, “Pop, I know you don’t need it, but I just wanted to do something nice for you. I bought you a shirt.” Granddads eyes lit up. Mine, slowly made their way to the linoleum tile. It was the ugliest shirt in the world. Had to be. My mother loved it. It had palm trees on it. Palm trees. And I think it was silk. All I could think about is how this 84-year-old blind man was going to be the nursing home pimp.

He tried the shirt on immediately. “It’s beautiful”, he said. I smiled. My mother smiled, a smile of success for her “good” taste (as if he could see). Granddad smiled a smile that made evident his new home really was beautiful, and that to him, I was beautiful, and that the shirt was beautiful, and for me, at the end of the day, I could see clearly that everything was. Beautiful.