Between Heaven and Earth (19 page)

Then I remembered. I still had one more part of Grandpa with me right now. The last letter still to be read. It was buried somewhere in my pack.

I climbed out of bed and pulled things out that I'd already packed. I started to feel a little panicky—where was it?—and then I found it. It was bent out of shape, a bit worse for wear. I'd originally thought that I should read it at the top of the mountain, but in the excitement it had slipped my mind. Coming back down, I did remember but I wondered if the word on the front—
End
—really meant the bottom of the mountain. Then when I got to the bottom, I thought maybe it meant when I got home or…Really, I guess part of me just didn't want to open it. It was the last thing he was ever going to say to me.

I held the letter in my hands, turning it over slowly. I thought about what had happened over the past weeks and I thought about him, what he had meant to me, what he
still
meant to me. It was time to open the letter. I unsealed it, careful not to rip the envelope, and pulled out the letter.

Dear DJ,

With the first two letters I knew where you would most likely be when you opened them; probably in your bedroom for the first, and at the foot of the mountain for the second. This one, well, it's hard to say what “end” means. It might mean you reached the top of Kilimanjaro or it might mean that you couldn't. It doesn't matter. To be honest with you, it never mattered. What truly matters is not the path that lies behind you or before you—what matters is what is inside of you.

You are such a strong, capable person. Somebody who always seems to succeed in the tasks he has set. I hope this gift that you gave to me—taking me up the mountain—was also a gift to you. I hope you have learned the joy of taking life as it comes, living in the moment, not thinking through to the end, but relishing the process and perhaps going polepole—going slowly along the path you travel.

You'll have to excuse me for my feeble attempts to communicate wisdom. I was always amazed when people saw me as wise. It seems to be a by-product of growing old; if you are old, you must be wise. Believe me, I've met a whole lot of stupid old people, most of whom were positive they were wise. Wisdom is almost an illusion.

A fool believes he knows what life is about. A wiser man understands he knows little. The wisest man not only understands his limitations, but accepts and embraces that lack of understanding. Slowly, over the years, I came to appreciate that what I knew would never be as great as what I didn't know. The only thing I have come to know with certainty is that all of us are simply trying to get along the best that we can, sharing in our struggles, trying for our dreams, living with our failures and celebrating our successes. I've had my share of both.

With you, I've often wondered if your greatest disadvantage was that you're so used to succeeding. Failure is good for the soul. While we aim for success, it is the failure that defines us. Don't be afraid of failing. You need to accept it and understand that failing doesn't make you a failure. It merely makes you human. I hope through this trip you have learned a few things, but the most important is that life is a journey, not a destination. This was part of your life journey—the last part I will share with you—although I know that a part of me will always be with you.

The Chagga people believe that a man never dies as long as he has children. I believe that as well. Through my daughters, through my grandsons, I live on. Through you I live on. I am so proud of you and sad that I will not be there to watch your ongoing journey to manhood, to becoming a husband and father and grandfather. And through your children and their children I will live on. Part of me will always be here on earth. The rest—I guess that's something I now know but can't pass on to you.

There is still one more thing I'd like to ask of you—and no, it doesn't involve climbing any more mountains! Having you named after me was such an honor. Your mother gave me one of the most precious things in a life that was filled with so much. Of course two Davids in a family led to you being called David Junior and then DJ. Now there's no longer a senior, so there's no longer a junior. You could—and only if you wish—now be known as David, but only if you wanted and only someday if it feels right to you. And who knows? There might, many, many years from now, be born a son or grandson who would be named David to carry on both of our legacies. If that does happen, I want you to do two things: give him our beret. And don't make him climb any damn mountains!

Socrates was once asked to comment on whether or not a man had led a good life. He said he could not say until the man had died because his life was not over. I can now answer. I've had the best life imaginable. And it ended, not back where I died but up on that mountain. Thank you for taking me with you on this trip—thanks to you, I finally have been between heaven and earth.

With greatest love,

Grandpa

I fought unsuccessfully to hold back the tears. But I knew these tears weren't just about sadness. Mixed in were gratitude, relief, happiness and joy.

There on the bed, among the items I'd unpacked to get to the letter, was the beret. It had been buried in my pack. I picked it up, felt the material, turned it around in my hands and thought of him wearing it, a smile on his face, a spring in his step, telling stories, laughing and living and loving each moment of his life.

I put it on, but somehow it just didn't feel right. I walked over to the mirror and rearranged it, turning it a little this way, pulling it down slightly, until it looked right. Then I looked into the mirror. And I saw him looking back at me. We were both smiling.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to the other wonderful writers of this series—what an honor it was to share the process with you all! Thanks also to Andrew Wooldridge for taking a chance on the series and actually getting back from lunch, and to Sarah Harvey for editing seven stories by seven very different writers.

ERIC WALTERS
began writing in 1993 as a way to entice his grade-five students into becoming more interested in reading and writing. Since then, Eric has published over seventy novels and won over eighty awards. Often his stories incorporate themes that reflect his background in education and social work and his commitment to humanitarian and social-justice issues. Eric lives in Mississauga, Ontario, with his wife and three children. For more information, visit
www.ericwalters.net
.

Eric, his son Nick and Nick's friend Jack climbed Mount Kilimanjaro to research this book.

Eric founded and helps operate a children's program that provides for over 400 orphans in Kikima, Mbooni District, Kenya. For more information and to find out how you can help, go to
www.creationofhope.com
.

www.seventheserles.com