Last Words
Nov. 26th, 2022 08:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nc1801paBeen thinking about my Grandpa since his death anniversary was last Thursday.
I remember dad taking me up to see my Grandparents not long after we found out it was terminal. He didn't have much time left, and my dad wanted me to make the most of it.
Dad told me to spend some time alone with him, sickly and weak and sitting in their front lounge room on their royal purple sofas that clashed terribly with the apricot trimmed walls and blue carpet.
So I sat with my Grandpa. I didn't know what to say.
I had a lot I wanted to, just none of it seemed relevant, or necessary.
I wanted to ask if he liked me. If he cared.
I wanted to tell him I hated how much he clearly loved my cousins more than me, how much I detested seeing their faces in every framed photo in every room, sleeping with a photo of my smart, beautiful, talented cousin staring at me in the guest room.
I wanted him to know I wished that was me.
I wanted to say I wish he'd been there more, I wish he'd come to my school events the way he'd been to theirs. I wish he'd known me better.
Did he know that I wrote? That I still write?
He wrote poetry, he wrote a whole book, yet he never read a single thing I'd ever written.
What did he know about me?
Did he regret this unspeakable distance between us and much as I did?
But, I didn't say any of that.
I sat and I took his hand.
"I'm really struggling with my money right now, got any advice on saving?" I asked.
He thought a long time.
Long enough to get my hopes up for some sagely words, some poetic line from the mind of this brilliant, creative man who had lived such an interesting and esteemed life.
Instead;
"No. You just need to have more money than you did before."
We fell back into silence. I immediately felt humiliated. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. What a stupid fucking question to ask. My desperation to have one last, meaningful moment had fallen flat on its face, and embarrassment was a cold drop in my stomach and a hot flush to my face.
I stopped speaking. We just sat there, my hand in his, a gesture I don't think either of us were comfortable with - a gesture neither of us thought polite to break.
I'm still struggling with my money.
I remember dad taking me up to see my Grandparents not long after we found out it was terminal. He didn't have much time left, and my dad wanted me to make the most of it.
Dad told me to spend some time alone with him, sickly and weak and sitting in their front lounge room on their royal purple sofas that clashed terribly with the apricot trimmed walls and blue carpet.
So I sat with my Grandpa. I didn't know what to say.
I had a lot I wanted to, just none of it seemed relevant, or necessary.
I wanted to ask if he liked me. If he cared.
I wanted to tell him I hated how much he clearly loved my cousins more than me, how much I detested seeing their faces in every framed photo in every room, sleeping with a photo of my smart, beautiful, talented cousin staring at me in the guest room.
I wanted him to know I wished that was me.
I wanted to say I wish he'd been there more, I wish he'd come to my school events the way he'd been to theirs. I wish he'd known me better.
Did he know that I wrote? That I still write?
He wrote poetry, he wrote a whole book, yet he never read a single thing I'd ever written.
What did he know about me?
Did he regret this unspeakable distance between us and much as I did?
But, I didn't say any of that.
I sat and I took his hand.
"I'm really struggling with my money right now, got any advice on saving?" I asked.
He thought a long time.
Long enough to get my hopes up for some sagely words, some poetic line from the mind of this brilliant, creative man who had lived such an interesting and esteemed life.
Instead;
"No. You just need to have more money than you did before."
We fell back into silence. I immediately felt humiliated. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. What a stupid fucking question to ask. My desperation to have one last, meaningful moment had fallen flat on its face, and embarrassment was a cold drop in my stomach and a hot flush to my face.
I stopped speaking. We just sat there, my hand in his, a gesture I don't think either of us were comfortable with - a gesture neither of us thought polite to break.
I'm still struggling with my money.
