Original - Time for Goodbyes
May. 20th, 2009 08:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
arghmusesThere are times in a person's life that are so momentous; they define that person.
It can make them better, or it can close off a part of them forever. A death or a birth is one of those moments.
There were stories about how cruel this old man was.
How he'd beat his wife for talking to the priest.
How he would come home early with hopes of catching her cheating.
How he'd say things out of hate and spite for his daughters.
But they were exaggerated; at least they were in the eyes of his granddaughter.
No, she did not know the man when he was younger and married. The thoughts of the war he was in still fresh in his mind.
Oh no, she was not alive then, nor was she there when he moved and settled here in the country.
She was not around to see if the words that were spewed forth were true or not.
She came after.
Her mother always told her that she changed her grandpa. That he was cold, to a degree.
And he probably was.
His wife died, his daughters didn't speak to him for he kicked them out of the house long ago.
One, well, she visited other relatives in different countries.
The other ended up getting married and had the granddaughter that changed this cold man's life.
She was born on a heated summer day. Red faced, screaming and a month late she arrived.
She was named and still the grandfather did not visit.
The mother, slowly patched things up between them. However, with any sort of diplomacy you can always see the patches. The differences of the past are still there, but a compromise of sorts was found. Ugly in the way it shows the truth, hidden behind the tenderly made exchanges.
However, once the grandfather beheld his tiny granddaughter, the wall of diplomacy was torn asunder and rebuilt.
He changed. He had a fragile new life in his hands, one that he would care for, and be a part of.
She would not leave him, not like his wife; nor would he turn her away like he did his daughters.
The aunt who was travelling came back, and all three raised her.
The father who was for the most part, good for nothing, was promptly excluded from that family.
The three raised her well, teaching and instilling values and morals that would carry far into her life.
From a babe, to a tyke, to a child to a pre-teen she grew.
She loved her family.
The way her mom would come home and smell like breads from the bakery she worked at.
The smell of her grandpa, which were so many, to pull one away and state that’s what he was would be useless and belittling to him.
In her pre-teen years, she broke away a bit, wanting to seek out her friendships with others her age.
And in time, she did.
However, at that point, her grandfather was getting on in years, and was becoming sicker.
She loved the old man with all her heart. He was the father she never had.
He was the one who taught her to ride a bike, and spent pennies on her at the store for candies.
He taught her how to fish, how to weed the garden, or rather let her run through it when not even his daughters were allowed to go into it to gather food for dinners.
She never understood why he had an army hat, or why some nights he would sit up, looking out the window smoking.
Those were not her moments. Those were his. But she would sit by him, and watch, as a tear would follow the grooves in his face. She would wipe it away and sit quietly with him.
One day, she came home and was told that her grandpa was in the hospice. She didn't understand. Some part of her did, and she blocked it, blocked out the knowledge that she should have examined.
She visited him once.
He lay in the bed, pale and sick.
He smiled for her and she tried to smile back.
She wanted him to leave, to come home, to sit with her, to tell her stories and to watch lightening storms together, to have raspberries and cream from the big silver bowl.
Little did she know that soon, a defining moment would be upon her.
She went to school. Was taught about the Japanese cranes that a girl was making. She was sick and was making a thousand cranes for peace.
She learnt how to make the crane, engraved it into her memory, now forgotten.
She wanted to make a crane for her grandpa. For peace.
She went home and didn't understand why everyone had tears in their eyes.
Her mother told her that he had died.
Two things happened at that moment.
She broke down, and a wall slammed up inside of her.
For the next while, the next three days she went through the motions of life.
Waking, school and home.
Her mother told her in her unending patience that he was at peace, and that he wasn't sore or in pain anymore.
The crane would go in the coffin. Or that’s what she wanted.
However, what happened was different.
She wanted to put the crane in, the services over, but they would not let her put the crane in. She cried, stating that she wanted to say good-bye that she wanted to see him. They told her she was too young and pulled her away.
Part of her mind screamed that he would never find peace.
She was hastily taken out of the little chapel and forced to wait outside.
She didn't even get to hold him tight, didn't get to kiss the weathered cheek she loved so much. She didn't get to say good-bye.
Something died in her.
Something went into the ground with that man. Something that probably shouldn't have died.
But it’s too late now.
One day, maybe she'll get it back. One day, on a summer day, fresh from rain, with raspberries and cream, maybe she’ll find the solace she lost.
It can make them better, or it can close off a part of them forever. A death or a birth is one of those moments.
There were stories about how cruel this old man was.
How he'd beat his wife for talking to the priest.
How he would come home early with hopes of catching her cheating.
How he'd say things out of hate and spite for his daughters.
But they were exaggerated; at least they were in the eyes of his granddaughter.
No, she did not know the man when he was younger and married. The thoughts of the war he was in still fresh in his mind.
Oh no, she was not alive then, nor was she there when he moved and settled here in the country.
She was not around to see if the words that were spewed forth were true or not.
She came after.
Her mother always told her that she changed her grandpa. That he was cold, to a degree.
And he probably was.
His wife died, his daughters didn't speak to him for he kicked them out of the house long ago.
One, well, she visited other relatives in different countries.
The other ended up getting married and had the granddaughter that changed this cold man's life.
She was born on a heated summer day. Red faced, screaming and a month late she arrived.
She was named and still the grandfather did not visit.
The mother, slowly patched things up between them. However, with any sort of diplomacy you can always see the patches. The differences of the past are still there, but a compromise of sorts was found. Ugly in the way it shows the truth, hidden behind the tenderly made exchanges.
However, once the grandfather beheld his tiny granddaughter, the wall of diplomacy was torn asunder and rebuilt.
He changed. He had a fragile new life in his hands, one that he would care for, and be a part of.
She would not leave him, not like his wife; nor would he turn her away like he did his daughters.
The aunt who was travelling came back, and all three raised her.
The father who was for the most part, good for nothing, was promptly excluded from that family.
The three raised her well, teaching and instilling values and morals that would carry far into her life.
From a babe, to a tyke, to a child to a pre-teen she grew.
She loved her family.
The way her mom would come home and smell like breads from the bakery she worked at.
The smell of her grandpa, which were so many, to pull one away and state that’s what he was would be useless and belittling to him.
In her pre-teen years, she broke away a bit, wanting to seek out her friendships with others her age.
And in time, she did.
However, at that point, her grandfather was getting on in years, and was becoming sicker.
She loved the old man with all her heart. He was the father she never had.
He was the one who taught her to ride a bike, and spent pennies on her at the store for candies.
He taught her how to fish, how to weed the garden, or rather let her run through it when not even his daughters were allowed to go into it to gather food for dinners.
She never understood why he had an army hat, or why some nights he would sit up, looking out the window smoking.
Those were not her moments. Those were his. But she would sit by him, and watch, as a tear would follow the grooves in his face. She would wipe it away and sit quietly with him.
One day, she came home and was told that her grandpa was in the hospice. She didn't understand. Some part of her did, and she blocked it, blocked out the knowledge that she should have examined.
She visited him once.
He lay in the bed, pale and sick.
He smiled for her and she tried to smile back.
She wanted him to leave, to come home, to sit with her, to tell her stories and to watch lightening storms together, to have raspberries and cream from the big silver bowl.
Little did she know that soon, a defining moment would be upon her.
She went to school. Was taught about the Japanese cranes that a girl was making. She was sick and was making a thousand cranes for peace.
She learnt how to make the crane, engraved it into her memory, now forgotten.
She wanted to make a crane for her grandpa. For peace.
She went home and didn't understand why everyone had tears in their eyes.
Her mother told her that he had died.
Two things happened at that moment.
She broke down, and a wall slammed up inside of her.
For the next while, the next three days she went through the motions of life.
Waking, school and home.
Her mother told her in her unending patience that he was at peace, and that he wasn't sore or in pain anymore.
The crane would go in the coffin. Or that’s what she wanted.
However, what happened was different.
She wanted to put the crane in, the services over, but they would not let her put the crane in. She cried, stating that she wanted to say good-bye that she wanted to see him. They told her she was too young and pulled her away.
Part of her mind screamed that he would never find peace.
She was hastily taken out of the little chapel and forced to wait outside.
She didn't even get to hold him tight, didn't get to kiss the weathered cheek she loved so much. She didn't get to say good-bye.
Something died in her.
Something went into the ground with that man. Something that probably shouldn't have died.
But it’s too late now.
One day, maybe she'll get it back. One day, on a summer day, fresh from rain, with raspberries and cream, maybe she’ll find the solace she lost.
