I've been meaning to write about my father-in-law for a while, but since I lost him it's just been too painful. Still is, actually, and I'm starting to accept the fact that it might just feel that way for a long time. And no less does his memory deserve, really. Salt of the earth is a good way to describe him, our Big Haisam, Jedo, Hajji, or Baba (said by a very small, but lucky, few).
I'll elaborate on the names a bit. They say a lot about who he was. In no particular order:
Hajji: He was called this, a term of great reverence and respect, by almost everyone--family, friends, acquaintances. It just means someone who has been on the Hajj, but in this case it was invoked to mean leader, possessor of wisdom, and truly good man. My father-in-law was the first person I've ever met who was absolutely devout in his religion, but free of judgment and willing to really let others find their own way. One of my favorite memories is watching him pray, which in Islam is specific and requires certain movements of the body. He kind of glowed, and remembering the sincerity in his voice as he invoked his God will someday be one of my more treasured memories. Right now it's a little more like a painful stabbing reminder of what we've all lost. Though I am generally not religious, I do explore the caverns of the spirit and feel honored to have known such a well-lit soul. Peace be upon you, Hajji.
Baba: Means father in Arabic. I have called him this since the first time we met, which was in Damascus. He was always warm and welcoming to me--I was family. Over the years he became a true father to me, always helping, advising, and fixing. He lived with me for quite a few years of my adult life, and delighted in using obscure Arabic words for common items to stump me. Drove me nuts, that did. But he was there and I loved him like my own father. We did a lot together--tiled my kitchen, fixed vacuums, organized tools, ate lunch (he loved my sandwiches, and tuna noodle casserole was a big hit), and once chased an angry raccoon from the garage in a series of farce-like moves. We talked about a lot as we worked side by side. We argued sometimes, just different opinions about life's great questions. But he loved me and called me his daughter. He was brokenhearted when his son and I split up, and cried every time he was at my new house. The week before he fell, he came over to help me with my garage. He organized the absolute heck out of it. We drank tea.
Big Haisam: This is what he was called ever since the birth of the littler version, my older son. My parents called him this a lot, and in Arabic it was common too, especially when all of us were together. It just fit well, though, even though he was kind of short. He was barrel chested, and actually barrel abdomened. Cylindrical and solid, I'd say, and I love remembering the way he wore his pants. And his feet, and long pinkie fingernails that I always teased him about. He needed them for quick screw tightening in his garage. He and my dad used to go out to the junkyard together, then out for breakfast. No common language, just two grandpas with wonderful round bellies and deep abiding mutual respect, and love. Big Haisam was big hearted, big laughtered, and big spirited.
Jedo: Grandfather in Arabic. As a grandfather, Jedo was a peeler of fruit, a giver of big hugs, and a source of absolute uncomplicated love for the kids. They brought him every little thing that broke, because "Jedo can fix it". He was there for so much of their little lives. All three of them prayed next to him when they were tiny, trying to imitate his movements. He was a grandfather that was always on the floor and did not mind the climbing of little bodies as if he were a mountain. He took them places, probably driving way below the speed limit and feeling unbound by center lines, as he sometimes did, Damascus-style. The kids kissed him all over his arms and hands in the hospital, and rubbed his fingers when they got puffy. Everyone commented in the hospital about how serene he looked, when really that was just how he was in life, too. The kids said their final goodbyes on a Sunday, and woke up the next morning without their Jedo in the world. Their first loss was a mighty one, indeed.
Baba fell in the bathroom at my ex's house, shortly after a massive stroke occurred. I don't miss many days wondering what that was like for him, or remembering what it was like that day when I found out he would be gone from us, or sifting through memories of him. Some days I wish I could feel it a little less, but I'd really rather not. It's easy to wax poetic about someone who is gone, but this is one of the instances where all the flowery language in the world just wouldn't cut it. And it's not even right, in some ways, to try, because it reduces him to one billionth of what he was. I wish he was still here, so I could kiss his forehead one more time.
