24
That's how long my great grandfather has to live, officially. 24 to 36 hours. His health has taken a plunge for the worse, his breathing has shallowed and his body is finally giving up the fight. It's strange, being asked to pretend that someone who isn't dead is. He isn't. Yet my mother is already preparing a speech for his funeral, my sister is deciding how to react, and friends of the family are gathering in preparation. I find it sad that of the only remaining family he has left, one of them truly cares, the other pretends to, and the last does not know how to. I got a strange speech from my mom about "just feeling whatever you feel" as if I was going to feel something other than whatever I felt. She then said something about not feeling which was also vague. She says she doesn't like it when I stare off into space and say nothing, which is what I've spent this weekend doing. I didn't even begin working on the portfolio. It just doesn't seem important. I feel that day after day we sit in these box rooms, learning about things that won't serve us any real purpose in reality. I'm looking at you, Current Life Issues. We're inside learning about what we aren't seeing while people die. It seems that we've set up a system that encourages avoiding life for as much as possible until you have no more to avoid. You run here and there and work and put food on the table and raise a family, and you grow old, your children stick you in a home, and you realize for the first time in your life that you haven't been living until up to that moment, and you look around and see that you can't stand up straight, your wife passed nearly a decade ago, and you feel the ache in your legs from all the running away you've been doing. And you sit down at your bus stop and sigh with pained gasps and look around at all the people walking blindly away from what you want so dearly. You get home and you realize that you are about to die and all you can think is "What was I thinking?"
I believe that's how my grandfather lived his life. Not my great grandfather. Truth is, I don't know much about my greatgrandfather other than in 24 hours, he will be dead and he will never have the chance to look at the sunrise or eat dinner with the family at Christmas or anything. He will cease to be.
I remember my grandfather as a tall man. I used to go to his house every Friday when he picked me up from school, from the time I was four until his death when I was in the third or fourth grade. We would go to Kay Bee's and Burger King because I was spoiled rotten and unwittingly took advantage of him. Or perhaps he just loved me that much. Truth is, I can barely remember the We Sing tapes I made him listen to between trips. I remember my grandmother very faintly, for she died when I was very young, four or five maybe. My mom loved her very much, though recent discussions told me that she wasn't always around. According to my mom, she was out saving the world, helping people in poor countries in ways I'm not even aware of today. But my mom never saw her because of this. She lived with my great grandfather and grandmother instead. But that is a story for another time.
After my grandmother died of brain cancer, it was just my grandfather who picked me up from school. I remember telling friends that the last thing my grandma told me before she died was that she would get pizza with me, but the truth is that she didn't. I must have made it up in my mind, though the memory seems very real. The real version of the story is that the last time I saw my grandma, she was in a coma and about to die and I had to say goodbye. And at that moment I must have felt much as I do now. I don't understand and cannot contemplate the ramifications of such an event. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. I didn't know what death was, and truth be told, I'm not even sure I do now.
As I grew older, my possessions from my grandfather began to accumulate. When my mom met my stepdad, we lived for a short time in my grandpa's house. My mom was working as a bartender and my stepdad was in the Navy, so I spent a lot of time with him. He was the nicest person I had ever known. He still remains in that place.
I remember the day my grandfather died. It was night and we had moved into another house. Everyone was in my mom's room, me on the floor playing Game Boy when the phone rang. I was playing the very first Wario game. I can recall my mother answering and beginning to cry. And when they told me, I looked up for a second, and kept playing again, but I couldn't see because my eyes were full of tears. And that's the most I've ever cried over a relative dying.
I think about how he must have felt all the time. He didn't have Alzheimer's, but he did have a broken heart. I wonder if that's how I will some day die, not of a disease or of a freak accident, but of heart break. Did my grandfather dream of my grandmother, and realize that once he awoke, that her vision would be gone? And in knowning this, did he finally decide not to open his eyes again?
There was no burial. They were both burned and spread into the sea from an urn together. I was on the boat with a lot of family. I don't recall much, other than it was a solemn affair and that many of the people I saw did not bother to come to family gatherings when he was alive. I found out later that of course they were there for his stuff. But I couldn't really judge them, because I myself had my eye on one of his big purple crystals, one I had never seen before. But I was a child and they were adults. I got the stone. Looking back now, I realize that I wish I had gotten all of it, not to keep for myself but to keep away from our lecherous family. Perhaps this inward realization is what makes me so distant and cold towards humanity sometimes.
I asked my mom if any of my friends could come to the funeral, and she said one, maybe two. I don't know if anyone is interested.
I believe that's how my grandfather lived his life. Not my great grandfather. Truth is, I don't know much about my greatgrandfather other than in 24 hours, he will be dead and he will never have the chance to look at the sunrise or eat dinner with the family at Christmas or anything. He will cease to be.
I remember my grandfather as a tall man. I used to go to his house every Friday when he picked me up from school, from the time I was four until his death when I was in the third or fourth grade. We would go to Kay Bee's and Burger King because I was spoiled rotten and unwittingly took advantage of him. Or perhaps he just loved me that much. Truth is, I can barely remember the We Sing tapes I made him listen to between trips. I remember my grandmother very faintly, for she died when I was very young, four or five maybe. My mom loved her very much, though recent discussions told me that she wasn't always around. According to my mom, she was out saving the world, helping people in poor countries in ways I'm not even aware of today. But my mom never saw her because of this. She lived with my great grandfather and grandmother instead. But that is a story for another time.
After my grandmother died of brain cancer, it was just my grandfather who picked me up from school. I remember telling friends that the last thing my grandma told me before she died was that she would get pizza with me, but the truth is that she didn't. I must have made it up in my mind, though the memory seems very real. The real version of the story is that the last time I saw my grandma, she was in a coma and about to die and I had to say goodbye. And at that moment I must have felt much as I do now. I don't understand and cannot contemplate the ramifications of such an event. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. I didn't know what death was, and truth be told, I'm not even sure I do now.
As I grew older, my possessions from my grandfather began to accumulate. When my mom met my stepdad, we lived for a short time in my grandpa's house. My mom was working as a bartender and my stepdad was in the Navy, so I spent a lot of time with him. He was the nicest person I had ever known. He still remains in that place.
I remember the day my grandfather died. It was night and we had moved into another house. Everyone was in my mom's room, me on the floor playing Game Boy when the phone rang. I was playing the very first Wario game. I can recall my mother answering and beginning to cry. And when they told me, I looked up for a second, and kept playing again, but I couldn't see because my eyes were full of tears. And that's the most I've ever cried over a relative dying.
I think about how he must have felt all the time. He didn't have Alzheimer's, but he did have a broken heart. I wonder if that's how I will some day die, not of a disease or of a freak accident, but of heart break. Did my grandfather dream of my grandmother, and realize that once he awoke, that her vision would be gone? And in knowning this, did he finally decide not to open his eyes again?
There was no burial. They were both burned and spread into the sea from an urn together. I was on the boat with a lot of family. I don't recall much, other than it was a solemn affair and that many of the people I saw did not bother to come to family gatherings when he was alive. I found out later that of course they were there for his stuff. But I couldn't really judge them, because I myself had my eye on one of his big purple crystals, one I had never seen before. But I was a child and they were adults. I got the stone. Looking back now, I realize that I wish I had gotten all of it, not to keep for myself but to keep away from our lecherous family. Perhaps this inward realization is what makes me so distant and cold towards humanity sometimes.
I asked my mom if any of my friends could come to the funeral, and she said one, maybe two. I don't know if anyone is interested.
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