Tracing His Shadow — Ben Eisen
There he sat, motionless up against the right wall of the living room where the couch lay. He sunk into the rented hospital bed and his body looked smaller than I remembered. It was as if his body had folded in on himself. His bones were sharp beneath the thin, papery skin. His hands once strong and always moving rested quietly on his chest. His fingers were slightly curled and they seemed to be holding onto something, something invisible. His mouth hung open just a little and his eyelids were sunken and still refused to flutter even an inch. A soft rattle came with every breath as if each breath was a gust of wind entering through a cracked window, fading fast. The sun hit the window blinds, cutting across his face in gentle stripes. The sharp smell of alcohol hung in the air both sterile and cold.
By his side rested my Grandma, who had been there for him all 53 years of their marriage. Her fingers gently stroked the back of his hand, slowly, steadily, and in a back-and-forth motion. I tried not to examine his face closely but forced myself to anyway. It was strangely peaceful and sacred almost. Like the time had slowed down out of respect for what was happening. My little cousin, Caleb, reclined with his legs crossed on the couch that was perpendicular to the hospital bed. He sat there laughing with his face absorbed in a game on his iPad, too young to realize what was happening. I sat by my closest friend in the family, Eli, who is 89 days older than me. We have been inseparable our whole lives. In the past, we’ve laughed and talked for hours on end at the usual sleepover, planning to wake up at 5 am just so we could play on Eli’s Xbox 1.
However, today was different. Not a word had been spoken between the two of us today. We both stared at the picture frame on the wall. There we were both lying on his lap, our faces smothered in chocolate cake. For that day we both zoned out into our different worlds, and I know for a fact that we both are very grateful for that. Around us were our parents and members of our extended family. They sat and watched him with a kind of reverence as if just being near him in his final hours was a gift. My toe tapped the ground anxiously and my back slid down the bottom of the wall gradually, every couple of seconds. From my angle, it felt as if I was watching a scene in a movie unfold. The moment where everyone knew what was going to happen, but knowing that you couldn’t say it out loud.
I studied the lines on his face, the way they curved and folded. I tried to get up but I couldn’t. It was as if my body had come to a sudden halt and the gears in my brain had stopped working. Instead, it played back all of the vivid memories I had shared with him throughout my childhood. Like spending every single February vacation of my life at the Lago Mar in Florida, and going to the card shop where he would spoil me, spending hundreds of dollars on basketball memorabilia. He expressed an immense amount of gratitude towards me, showing what it means to care deeply without even having to express it in words. I couldn’t put words together that demonstrated how much I loved him, and how big of an impact he had on my life. He had set the standard for the type of person that I needed to be. He was my Grandfather.
I glanced at him, this quiet version of the man I thought would live forever. For a moment I didn’t just see him, I saw everything that came before him. Everything that he carried.
My grandfather, Martin, but every one of his grandchildren called him Pa carried a past far heavier than most people ever knew. I remember the conversation coming up once. Pa and I were sitting on the porch. Every minute or so he would anxiously rip off a piece of challah and feed it to the birds. The winds hit the wind chimes, singing DING. He flinched slightly but it was enough for me to notice. Pa stared at something, far away. It was the 20th anniversary of Abe Eisen’s death and this is when Pa began to tell me about his father.
“Abe… he had a troubled past,” Pa stammered.
As he spoke his facial expressions shifted. His jaw tightened and he pushed out the words, coughing after every couple of words. His warming smile dimmed and it was then that I realized that it wasn’t his own life that weighed him down, but the one that came before it. He told me about his father and his incredibly saddening story. Abe grew up in Poland during the early 20th century, a place at the time that was scarred by war and hatred. One day, while walking through town, Abe and his father came face-to-face with this kind of violence. A Russian soldier drove the tip of his bayonet into Abe’s father’s abdomen. Abe grabbed his father who had just collapsed and carried him all the way back home where he died just a few hours later. It was a senseless and brutal act and it happened in broad daylight.
After that, everything changed. Poland was an active war zone, torn apart by the Chaos of World War 1. Abe, who was still just a boy, was separated from what was left of his family because of unknown reasons. He wandered the streets for a year, surviving off of stolen bread and luck. He drifted through various Refugee camps like a ghost. Eventually, by some miracle, he was found by one of his mother’s old friends. Through that connection, he was reunited with the fragments of his surviving family.
But even when they made it to New Jersey, peace didn’t come easily. Abe and his brothers built a small furniture business from the ground up. Still, the damage was already done and Abe had seen too much. He started a family of his own, but the home he created was most definitely not a gentle one. The scars from his childhood became sharp edges that cut into the next generation. He had a quick temper and was very cruel to his family. He was also physically and emotionally abusive. Looking back, we guess that he suffered from deep mental illness trauma that back then no one would have dared to name or treat.
The room was quiet, but my mind wasn’t. I was glad that I was there with Pa in his last hours. Pa was the type of man who woke up extra early to make French Toast every Saturday morning for my cousin and me. He tossed a football in the backyard for hours until his shoulder was so sore that he got 3 hours of sleep the next night. Even when my cousin and I shattered the garage window while we were playing wiffle ball he didn’t yell. Pa let out the softest breath like air had just been knocked loosely from his lungs. He glanced at the broken glass, then with a faint shake of his head and a ghost smile he motioned for us to follow him inside. No scolding, no clean-up orders but on the way in Pa muttered.
“Hey Ben, watch the curveball next time.”
It was in those small moments, the ones that barely made a sound, was how I started to fully understand what strength he believed in. The one where he showed up not with loud words or grand gestures, but with a quiet presence knowing exactly when to step back, when to stay quiet, and when simply being there was just enough.
The memories of him talking with every single waiter or waitress like they were his old friends still replay in my head. He made people feel seen; like they mattered no matter who they were. His kind of gentleness didn’t come from nowhere. It came purely from choice. He carried something in his eyes. That quiet type of kindness that isn’t loud and showy but constantly makes an impact in so many people's lives.
The shadows in the room shifted as the day wore on, the sun started tracing its path across the solid carpet like it had done a thousand times before. Time didn’t seem to pass that day. Instead, it settled and reshaped everything that it touched. And somewhere in the quiet settling of his face, I could see a younger version of him. He wasn’t lying down in his hospital bed. He was standing beside my father in the stands at my lacrosse games. He was clapping with that familiar half-smile at my Bar-Mitzvah. The kind that said I’m proud without a single word. I could see him again, one arm around my dad’s shoulders both enthusiastically cheering on the Syracuse men’s basketball team to win their NCAA Elite Eight game against Virginia.
The scenes blurred and rearranged themselves. Pa moved through the world with quiet precision, and my father mirrored it. When my father got diagnosed with stage 3 cancer nothing exploded. There were no dramatic reactions. However, a schedule was drawn in pencil instead of ink. The changes came gradually. Evenings turned into long nights but my dad never fell out of rhythm. He continued to move forward not because things got easier, but because that’s what he had seen his father do without letting it affect the person he was. And in every quiet choice that my dad made, you could feel Pa’s presence gently guiding his son along the way.
My father didn’t once complain. Not when the cancer made him lose 40 pounds or when the medications made his hands tremble, trying his best to hold them still. Yet he still showed up. After a long round of chemo he would still come to my lacrosse tournaments and my sister’s swim meets. Even when his body protested with every step. Each game was a quiet testament to his determination. I didn’t say it out loud, but I noticed it. All of it. The way his footsteps dragged slightly more than they used to. The way he would rub both temples in the car ride home from his chemotherapy session but still asking if I wanted to stop for ice cream. He didn’t want an applause for enduring it just like Pa never had.
I began to understand something else then. The worth of a life isn’t measured by your accomplishments or recognition, but by the way you’ve shaped the lives around you. The kindness you offer to others, and the values that you pass on to the next generation are often what you never fully see. However, it makes the greatest impact.
Even though Pa’s chair in the living room is empty now his presence isn’t gone. I still picture his slim, gentle frame, in his gray New Balance sneakers that he wore on his morning walks. Now they sit on our shoe rack, holding the memories of the steps that he once took. I hear him in my father’s laugh whenever somebody cracks a joke, and I feel him in the warmth of Saturday mornings when the house smells like French Toast and Syrup. Some people aren’t just parts of the “past” they live in the present through the lives they have genuinely touched. The memory of him continues to be stitched into my life today, and when I tell my kids the stories that Pa told me, his legacy will continue for generations.
Ben Eisen is currently a 10th grader at Weston High School. He spends his time playing lacrosse and hanging out with his friends and family. When he’s not on the field or out with his favorite people, he’s coming up with different story ideas or editing his latest piece. Ben hopes that his stories will reach people emotionally, make them think, and stay with his readers long after they’re finished.