for me? When I had all those inoculations as a child?”
Grandfather smiles. “That was a different house.”
“And a different view,” my father agrees. “All I could see from that window was the neighbor’s yard and an air-train track if I looked high enough.”
“But beyond that there was sky,” Grandfather says softly. “You can almost always see the sky. And what’s beyond that, I wonder? And after this?”
Bram and I exchange glances. Grandfather must be wandering a little today, which is to be expected. On the day the elderly turn eighty, the decline always accelerates. Not everyone dies at exactly the same time, but it is always before midnight.
“I’ve invited my friends to come immediately after the Committee visits,” Grandfather says. “And then after they leave I’d like to spend some one-on-one time with each of you. Starting with you, Abran.”
My father nods. “Of course.”
The Committee does not take long. They arrive, three men and three women in their long white lab coats, and they bring things with them, too. The Banquet clothes that Grandfather will wear. Equipment for tissue preservation. A microcard with a history of his life so he can watch it on the port.
With the exception of maybe the microcard, I think Grandfather will like our gifts better.
After a few moments, Grandfather reappears wearing his Banquet clothes. They are basically plainclothes, simple pants and a shirt and socks, but they are made of fine-quality material, and he has been able to select the color.
I feel something catch in my throat when I see that the color he has chosen for his clothing is a light green. We are so much alike. And I wonder if he realized when I was born that the days of our Banquets would be so close together, since our birthdays are only a few days apart.
We all sit politely, Grandfather in his bed and the rest of us on chairs, while the Committee completes their part of the celebration.
“Mr. Reyes, we present to you the microcard with images and records from your life,” they say. “It has been compiled by one of our best historians in your honor.”
“Thank you,” Grandfather says, reaching out his hand.
The box containing the microcard is like the silver one we receive when we are Matched, except for the color: gold. The microcard inside has pictures of Grandfather as a small boy, a teenager, a man. He hasn’t seen some of these images in years, and I imagine that he is excited to view them today. The microcard also includes a summary of his life in words, read by one of the historians. Grandfather turns the golden box over in his hands as I did with my silver box not long ago at the Match Banquet. His life cupped in his palms, as mine was.
One of the women speaks next. She seems gentler than the others, but maybe that is because she is smaller and younger than the rest. “Mr. Reyes, have you chosen the person to take possession of your microcard when today is over?”
“My son, Abran,” Grandfather says.
She holds out the device for the tissue collection, which, as a final courtesy to the elderly, the Society allows to take place privately, among family. “And we are pleased to formally announce that your data indicates you have qualified for preservation. Not everyone qualifies, as you know, and it is another honor that you can add to your already long list of achievements.”
Grandfather takes the device from her and thanks her again. Before she can ask him who he’s trusted with the delivery of the sample, he volunteers the information. “My son, Abran, will take care of this as well.”
She nods her head. “Simply swab your cheek and put the sample in here,” she says, demonstrating. “Then seal it up. You need to bring the sample to the Biological Preservation Department within twenty-four hours of collection. Otherwise we cannot guarantee that preservation will be effective.”
I’m glad that Grandfather has qualified to have a tissue sample
Grandfather smiles. “That was a different house.”
“And a different view,” my father agrees. “All I could see from that window was the neighbor’s yard and an air-train track if I looked high enough.”
“But beyond that there was sky,” Grandfather says softly. “You can almost always see the sky. And what’s beyond that, I wonder? And after this?”
Bram and I exchange glances. Grandfather must be wandering a little today, which is to be expected. On the day the elderly turn eighty, the decline always accelerates. Not everyone dies at exactly the same time, but it is always before midnight.
“I’ve invited my friends to come immediately after the Committee visits,” Grandfather says. “And then after they leave I’d like to spend some one-on-one time with each of you. Starting with you, Abran.”
My father nods. “Of course.”
The Committee does not take long. They arrive, three men and three women in their long white lab coats, and they bring things with them, too. The Banquet clothes that Grandfather will wear. Equipment for tissue preservation. A microcard with a history of his life so he can watch it on the port.
With the exception of maybe the microcard, I think Grandfather will like our gifts better.
After a few moments, Grandfather reappears wearing his Banquet clothes. They are basically plainclothes, simple pants and a shirt and socks, but they are made of fine-quality material, and he has been able to select the color.
I feel something catch in my throat when I see that the color he has chosen for his clothing is a light green. We are so much alike. And I wonder if he realized when I was born that the days of our Banquets would be so close together, since our birthdays are only a few days apart.
We all sit politely, Grandfather in his bed and the rest of us on chairs, while the Committee completes their part of the celebration.
“Mr. Reyes, we present to you the microcard with images and records from your life,” they say. “It has been compiled by one of our best historians in your honor.”
“Thank you,” Grandfather says, reaching out his hand.
The box containing the microcard is like the silver one we receive when we are Matched, except for the color: gold. The microcard inside has pictures of Grandfather as a small boy, a teenager, a man. He hasn’t seen some of these images in years, and I imagine that he is excited to view them today. The microcard also includes a summary of his life in words, read by one of the historians. Grandfather turns the golden box over in his hands as I did with my silver box not long ago at the Match Banquet. His life cupped in his palms, as mine was.
One of the women speaks next. She seems gentler than the others, but maybe that is because she is smaller and younger than the rest. “Mr. Reyes, have you chosen the person to take possession of your microcard when today is over?”
“My son, Abran,” Grandfather says.
She holds out the device for the tissue collection, which, as a final courtesy to the elderly, the Society allows to take place privately, among family. “And we are pleased to formally announce that your data indicates you have qualified for preservation. Not everyone qualifies, as you know, and it is another honor that you can add to your already long list of achievements.”
Grandfather takes the device from her and thanks her again. Before she can ask him who he’s trusted with the delivery of the sample, he volunteers the information. “My son, Abran, will take care of this as well.”
She nods her head. “Simply swab your cheek and put the sample in here,” she says, demonstrating. “Then seal it up. You need to bring the sample to the Biological Preservation Department within twenty-four hours of collection. Otherwise we cannot guarantee that preservation will be effective.”
I’m glad that Grandfather has qualified to have a tissue sample
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