Doctors in Montreal suggested they'd transfer him to the facility, where nurses would take care of him. But, instead, I bought him a nice wheelchair and a flight ticket to Jamaica.
Everyday we walked outside of my studio in Kingston and listened to the news about Syrian refugees, of Hilary and Trump debating while I painted. Sometimes I took him to bars for live Reggae and Jazz. Day by day, his eyes were telling that he was on his way somewhere, out of this world... In 3 months we moved into a Brooklyn basement apartment with Gocha.
-Cremate? You will have your father burn in the oven?? Georgians MUST bury their dead -it is a tradition - Gocha kept saying.
-That's how it's done in America. How are we going to afford to transport his body from NY to Tbilisi? When did I care about traditions? -I keep saying.
But for the sake of my father's brother and sisters, but especially for Gocha, I keep thinking, I must figure out how to transport and bury him in Georgia, otherwise Gocha will torture me the rest of the life by repeating: "You put father in the oven, you monster"...
If we manage somehow to transfer his body in Tbilisi, the whole neighborhood, his students, relatives from all over Georgia would arrive for the funeral. Long dinner tables will be set and guests will make long toasts, eat, drink the whole night and recall sweet stories about him. In Georgian minds and hearts -that's the way to say goodbye to a loved one… So we did it!
