There is a magnet that I keep thinking about on the refrigerator door in my grandfather’s apartment. It says, “What a wonderful life I’ve had, I only wish I realized it sooner.” The quote is attributed to Colette, whose picture is on the magnet. She is wearing a beaded tank-top with white pants, seated in the lotus position.

My grandfather, Robert Spencer Siffert, whom my family affectionately called ‘Popop,’ was born on June 16, 1918 in Brooklyn, N.Y., to Oscar and Sadye Siffert. He attended James Madison High School, where he met Miriam Sand, who later became his wife of 67 years. We affectionately called her ‘Nana.’ He went to NYU for both his undergraduate and medical degrees. After medical school, he served as a flight surgeon in the U.S. Army Air Force during World War II, flying “The Hump” between Burma and China. Upon returning to America, he became an orthopedic surgeon, eventually serving as Chair of Orthopedics at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York. He traveled abroad many times on humanitarian missions, teaching and delivering medical care in developing countries such as Indonesia, Tunisia and Haiti. He spent summers on Martha’s Vineyard and cultivated an active and loving friend group there. Later in life he developed a passion for making woodcut art, using his surgical cutting skills to make heartfelt images of animals, people and nature.

When I was born, my grandfather was nearly 70 and had much of his professional life behind him. But everywhere I went his name followed. As a child, doctors would ask me, “Are you Robert Siffert’s grandson? He is a great doctor and a kind man.” When I went to the Vineyard, family friends would say, “We love your grandfather so much.” I started to realize I was in the presence of someone special.

Memories with Popop: Robert Siffert with his grandson Matt.

Memories with Popop: Robert Siffert with his grandson Matt.

As I got older, my grandfather would join my immediate family on trips. For my eighth birthday, my dad, brother, grandfather and I went on a safari to Kenya. Our plane landed and I nearly hyperventilated with excitement upon seeing wildebeests and elephants. My grandfather got so much joy out of watching me see the world and I got so much joy out of seeing it with him. When we got home to New York, he made me a woodcut of two elephants playing ‘tag’ with one another. It hangs in my apartment today. The caption reads, “To Matt, Because You Love Elephants and We Love You. Love, Popop and Nana.”

After Kenya, Popop and I became close. Around this time, my family took weekly trips to Bedford, N.Y., where he had a house. It was there that I cultivated a love of the outdoors and the arts. On Saturday mornings, Popop would take my family and me on a hike through his property’s backwoods. I remember the pond by the small waterfall and the haunting quality of being immersed by trees. At sunset, we would head inside and watch James Bond movies that Popop had dubbed from TBS. To say that I became obsessed would be a colossal understatement. I impersonated characters (Jaws from Moonraker was my favorite), sang theme songs (though quite far out of my vocal range, Live and Let Die was my usual go-to), and memorized utterly useless details with which I could stump friends and family. (Do you remember the license plate number of Peter Franks, villain in Diamonds Are Forever? Well I do. It’s RVC 435H.)

On Sunday mornings I would poke my head into Popop’s art studio, which was covered floor-to-wall with woodcuts, carving tools and paint. When I looked in, I saw a world of excitement, happiness and authenticity. Sometimes, I would go in and Popop would show me around. We even made woodcuts together. My favorite is “A Paintbrush Painting,” a diptych portrait of a paintbrush-shaped boy holding a paintbrush. One panel is black, the other is blue and red. The boy is smiling ear to ear, happy to be alive, happy to be making art. That sure was me that morning. It was a perfect moment with Popop: fun, educational, full of love.

As I entered young adulthood, my artistic interests blossomed toward music. Popop was supportive every step of the way. He came to shows of mine at seedy clubs in outer boroughs, took me to concerts, and gave me lectures-on-tape. In private moments, he would ask me thought-provoking questions about my budding creative life. He once said, “I notice that a lot of your songs are about love. Are they always true?” When I told him they were, he look bewildered. “That must be hard to talk about,” he said with a smile. He was thrilled by how important art was becoming in my life. I was thrilled that someone was taking me and my art seriously.

As I grew up, so did Popop. He grew more frail. He stopped going to Martha’s Vineyard. He sold his Bedford house. When Nana passed away from Alzheimer’s, my grandfather gave up woodcutting. His physical and mental energy had been depleted. But he was a true artist. He knew that when doors close, others stand to be opened. He became partners with Ruth Friendly, an old friend who was also a widow. Ruth revitalized Popop, taking him to concerts, lectures and museums. His artistic life soon returned, too. He began making watercolor paintings and monoprints, expressing himself in abstract forms that explored shape, texture and feeling.

As Popop settled into a full-time life in New York, I did too. I finished college, moved back to Manhattan, and assumed life as a musician. Weekend family brunches at his apartment became the norm. He and I would look at his recent experiments in art. He would ask me about my music. We had found a modified, updated version of Bedford. Sometimes Popop and I would have private moments together and I would ask how he was doing. He would always say the same thing: “I’m doing great. I have a wonderful family. I’m having fun with Ruth. I can’t ask for anything more.”

My grandfather passed away peacefully at his New York city apartment on Feb. 18. The immediate outpouring of love and support from family and friends was tremendous. Friends of his talked about how loyal he was. Doctors who were students of his recalled his dedication to teaching and his craft. Friends in my generation, who were treated by him as children, spoke of his sweetness. The fact that he connected deeply with people of so many generations has taught me that love and human kindness cut through age, vocation, gender and race.

After my grandfather passed away, I looked again at many of his woodcuts. The woodcuts, like him, have universal appeal. It’s easy to see why. They are charming and heartfelt, but also aesthetically beautiful and skillfully made. They express the joys of life and shine light on the moments when we are most happy. They show us that, between difficult times, there are beautiful ones. These are the moments we must hold on to and keep close.

Over a month has passed since my grandfather passed away. Last week, I traveled to the West Coast, driving from Portland to Yosemite National Park, and finally to San Francisco. I felt Popop everywhere I went. When I went to art galleries in Portland, I felt his dedication to self-expression and creativity. When I looked up at the pounding waterfalls in Yosemite, I heard the pounding waterfalls of Bedford. When I met up with old friends in San Francisco, I felt his love for humanity.

The hardest thing about losing someone you love is the constant gravitational pull toward focusing on what you have lost. In the last month, I have mourned the loss of a towering figure in my life. But now it is time for me to celebrate my life, both the one I have had and the one I will have. It is the life that Popop gave me. The one that, thanks to him, is filled with love and happiness. Colette was right. I’ve had a wonderful life. I’m lucky I realized it so soon.