An Exerpt

A Chapter by Nat Sav

I was sitting, if you could even call it that, on the couch in the living room. The room quietly buzzed around me, a fluid picture of muted life, which seemed ironic to me. They were living noiselessly at this moment after my grandfather's death when they should have been making every moment louder to fill the silence of his lost sound. I was a hypocrite though; I wasn't living at all, just taking up space on the lonely sofa.
My mother was numb. I could see it in the way she hugged everyone weakly as they said, "I'm sorry for your loss," or, "my condolences." She had a tight-lipped, sad smile and said thank you. Thank you? Thank you for being sorry? What was the point? It was useless. All of it. The words, the food they brought. Every single tiny part of this godforsaken day. I hated it. I hated that people were being polite to me and saying worthless words, words that could be found on stupid greeting cards from the store. I hated that i had to respond in an equally worthless way. I hated when people said "passed away" instead of died. My grandfather f*****g died. He didn't pass on to some fancy daydream land. He died. And i saw the whole thing. The light go out of his eyes, the blood turn cold in his hands, the way the sound of his breaths diminished until they were silent, until they faded like he did. He died, and it was a finality. Not some passed away crap. That would mean he was moving forward. And he wasn't. He wasn't going anywhere but his grave. That's the horrible, blunt truth. I didn't need a euphemism to to help me deal with it. I was fine; I was going to be fine.
I remember when I was about four years old, and my grandfather brought me to his farm. It was in the countryside, and he and my grandmother tended to all sorts of animals and grew their own produce. They had chickens and pigs and cows, but my favorite was the baby goat. I placed my tiny arms around its bristly hair and using all my strength, I attempted to pick it up, though it was bigger than I was and struggled to worm out of my grasp. I was going about it for a good ten minutes to no avail and my grandmother was just about to intercept when my grandfather said, "It's ok, let her try, and if she fails, it's fine. She'll be fine." It's one of those moments that I just remember vividly, and I know that it must have some sort of significance to my future. I dont remember what happened after, whether i picked up the goat or not, and I guess I realized then that it didn't matter. Failure or success, the salient part is trying. And my grandfather knew that; I admired him for it, for his wiseness.
He always knew what to say or do in any situation. He helped me when I was in doubt, and taught me things that I never would have tried otherwise. He told me stories about life and love and growing up. I was going to miss it. I already did.