Grandad B

i thought about looking for. a poster of Marx. or someone else you admired. to put on the walls. because they were plain disinfectant-hospital-green. and i knew. i wouldn’t want that. to be my final view.

 

but I didn’t know what shops would sell them.

and then you were dead.

 

i spent the funeral listing. all the colours that Skittles come in. so i wouldn’t break down. when the kids read their tributes aloud. because mum was crying. when she hadn’t seen you in more than a decade. i didn’t want tears induced by a funeral atmosphere. i wanted them to be personal. i put my hand on hers. to offer some bodily comfort. but she knocked it away. and i figured that maybe it makes you cry harder. having someone touch you. empathy.

 

yours was my first funeral.

 

they named me as one of the five grandchildren. and it felt like hearing my name in a school assembly. hot and embarrassing. whatever the honour they were calling you up for.

 

i make myself sound younger than i was. i think all first experiences. reduce us to toddler status. because not knowing what to expect. is what being a kid is all about.

 

you taught me to play chess.

no one else would play it with me when I went home. said they didn’t know how. until my sister joined a club. suddenly everyone was game. thanks guys.

you probably let me win. but not all the time. because kids have to learn. i respected that. each victory felt earned.

 

i remember the pound pressed into my hand. at the end of each visit. pocket money. i’d put it in a piggy bank. save up for the milkman coming round. sometimes I didn’t have enough. and we’d have to turn the lights out. my sister thinking it was a game. shouting BOO.

 

it had been eight years and you were smaller. not just because i was taller. shrunken by white sheets. it was your birthday and i brought you a card. thinking you’d be pleased i’d remembered. but you didn’t want to celebrate. waiting for the party in ireland when you were well. i said it sounded great. but out in the corridor. uncle bob’s hushed tones said you were going to die. and i felt like a scumbag. for jollying you along into false time.

 

you wouldn’t look directly at me. spoke to me through hoarse questions to bob. it hurt but i don’t blame you. i’d had your address for about two years. but i was scared. of you being different. s**t excuse. i know. feckin’ gobshite you might grunt. if we were having this conversation. everything was confused. i wasn’t feeling too good. no energy to invent hearty grandchild news.

 

sorry.

 

i wondered if i should sneak you in a pipe. it seemed weird not to see one clenched in your teeth. like your missing flat cap. swapped for yellowing gowns. your confidence cracked. and your generous form shrivelled into an old dying man. it felt wrong to tiptoe down to the canteen. when you wanted to rest. like leaving the door unlatched for Death. my milkshake tasted like bananas and guilt.

 

you talked of your youth. as telegraph boy kipping in the bushes. i was glad to be introduced to the real you. except the real you was drugged. and we were responding in encouraging falsettos. like to puppies or babies. repeating key words. caricaturing surprise. i wanted to cry. but like at the funeral that was yet to take place. i couldn’t allow myself that luxury. i was getting what i deserved.

 

i felt like a bringer of death. a bad omen. like waking up to a priest performing the extreme unction. i imagine the appearance. of a long-absent relative. compounds whatever fears. a sick person has already conceived.

 

the last dregs of granddad.

 

the night you died. i was in a nightclub called the coliseum. i got home and dreamt of your nurses. the one who hadn’t seemed to like me. when she asked who i was visiting. i automatically said granddad. then tried paddy. it was criminal. to only know you by affectionate titles.

patrick boylan was a lucky guess. since bob’s real name is pother.

 

i wish. i wish. i wish.

 

but what do wishes matter.

know that i appreciate you. more than maybe i would have. if i’d been a loyal weekly visitor.

 

 

love from. the chess-playing gobshite.

 

Author's Note

Even though it's personal, please review constructively. Thanks.

Reviews

[mick weller]

Marx-Skittles-BOO-Death - by adding capitals here i'm wondering about emphasis..?

The Irish connection?
I once owned a pair of splendid Boylan Boots - Made in Ireland. I'd like to think your grandfather had a hand in making those... I suppose because your piece is quite moving... and I liked those boots...
Gobshite i feel is a term used by your granddad (?) Have you borrowed Feckin' from Father Ted though?
- they couldn't get away with f**k but feck was ok. So I'm wondering if this term precedes FT?
this is written with great feeling - admirable.
I never knew either of my grandfathers...

[Anthony Morningstar]

Very few capitals. And for good reason it seems where they are scattered though out. The other thing that I caught in this was the small print. It seemed much more like a newspaper then anything. In way this futhers the de-attachment that one feels.

[Kacie]

This is a touching piece. Your imagery is wonderful (my milkshake tasted like bananas and guilt), and your tone very affecting. You can tell that you really cared for him, yet you felt that regret that so many of us do when someone passes and the woulda shouldas catch up with us.
Well written, I wouldn't change anything.

[TL Boehm]

you hit it smack in the center when you wrote "i think all first experiences. reduce us to toddler status. because not knowing what to expect. is what being a kid is all about." I have been in that place myself and you brought it back with clarity - vivid imagery - stellar writing.
Perhaps we guilt ourselves into this corner....but I have never been 'ready' for any passing....of any one....it is always a shock to my soul.
This write captures so much truth - even though its personal - the reader can place herself right in that spot....right in those feelings.

[Bubo]

No criticism at all
because such an achingly sad piece cannot have fault, or structure, it just is.
Grandad, someone you knew and then was gone.......even being 18 is daunting to go to a funeral, and no matter how old you are, who really wants to go.......it's unbearable saying goodbye in what I think is the most
inpersonal way (or is it impersonal?!)
Your Grandad was a part of you, and never mind about being a weekly visitor, he wouldnt have wanted that anyway!
Such a touching piece.........full of emotion and NO your not a s**t!

[Emily B]

There's no way to be constructive with perception. Stack it any way you want, it's your story. It seems heartless to mention periods and verb tenses and spelling when you've just pinned your heart to these words describing how you felt.

I think, there is something inherently wrong in treating Death as a stranger. Of course, it wasn't your fault that your first loss wasn't until you were eighteen. You were an adult mostly formed by that time. It seems ghoulish to say we should acknowledge the presence of the inevitable. We've got only so much time, to say goodbyes and such. It seems silly to waste a moment of it being bashful.