my granfather

I’d slept in, it was already past the time I was supposed to be getting ready for school.  The sunlight lit my room from underneath.  I heard a muffled cry from downstairs.  

I opened my door and yelled, “Whats wrong?”  I expected my mom to yell up, “Nothing, your sister’s just singng loudly.”  But I realized it was real crying.  I was annoyed, I wanted my sister to be quiet, I though she was being dramatic, I wanted her to shut up.  “Why is Indigo crying?” I yelled downstairs.  My mom appeared at the bottom of the stairs, her face crinkled with tears.  The sobbing grew louder.  

“Honey, we’ve had some sad news.”  

“Oh my god, oh my god, don’t tell, I don’t want to hear it!” I screamed, covering my ears.  I spun around, trying to block it out, trying to go back to my room, to recover the moment filled with calm sunshine and orange.   

“Your grandfather died.”  Oh my god...The blood pulsed through my head, swishing in my ears.  Rancid sadness leaked out of my heart and coursed through my body.  Yet something close to relief also swept over me.  I ran to the bottom of the stairs and buried myself in my dads arms.  I started crying.  My mom and sister were huddled on the couch, my sister trying to be brave for me, and not cry as hard.  

My dad seeemed less upset than the rest of us.  It was his dad and I was sad for him, more than for myself, but he wasn’t crying as hard as the rest of us.  He seemed accepting of the fact.  My grandfather had been quietly losing his memory for years.  He barely recognized his four sons and hadn’t known who I was for months, maybe years.  My dad had prepared himself, steeled himself.  I hadn’t.  Despite losing my grandmother and great grandmother when i was four, I hadn’t shut off the part of my heart that was leaking right now.  

I could feel my grandfathers hands as I sat there crying.  They were strong hands, baseball playing hands, always cold and veiny when I’d known them.  Yet despite their temperature, they’d always held an inner warmth.  When one loses their memory, they lose all pretense.  In his heart, my grandfather was a quiet, loving person, and, due to his illness,  this was all he was the last few years of his life.  Whenever I think of him, I think of his hands, and of his silent warm strength.

my grandad draft 2

I’d slept in, it was already past the time I was supposed to be getting ready for school.  The sunlight lit my room from underneath.  I heard a muffled cry from downstairs.  I opened my door and yelled whats wrong.  I expected my mom to yell up nothing, your sister’s just singng loudly.  But I realized it was real crying.  I was annoyed, I wanted my sister to be quiet, I though she was being dramatic, I wanted her to shut up.  Why is indiggo crying i yelled downstairs.  My mom appeared at the bottom of the stairs, her face crinkled with tears.  The sobbing grew louder.  Honey, we’ve had some sad news.  Oh my god, oh my god, Don’t tell, I don’t want to hear it! I screamed, covering my ears.  I spun around, trying to block it out, trying to go back to my room, to recover themoment with the calm sunshine and orange.   Your grandfather died.  Oh my god the blood pulsed through my head, swishing in my ears.  My heart was pounding, and rancid sadness was coursing through my body, out of my heart like a leak.  Yet something close to relief also swept over me.  I ran to the bottom of the stairs and buried myself in my dads arms.  I started crying.  My mom and sister were huddled on the couch, my sister trying to be brave for me, and not cry as hard.  My dad seeemed less upset than the rest of us.  It was his dad and I was sad for him, more than for myself, but he want crying as hard as the rest of us.  He seemed accepting of the fact.  My grandfather had been quietly losing his memory for years.  He barely recognized his sons and hadnt known who i was for months, maybe years.  My dad had prepared himself, steeled himself.  I hadn’t.  Despite losing my grandmother and great grandmother in the same year, when i was four, I hadn’t shut off the part of my heart that was leaking right now.  I coukd feel my grandfathers hands as I sat there crying.  They were strong hands, baseball playing hands, always cold and veiny when id known them.  Yet despite their temperature, they’d always held a warmth, an inner warmth that was conveyed depite his quiet nature and mental fogginess.  Whenever I think of him, I think of his hands, of his silent warm strength.