Grandfather

They left as soon as they got the call, and by the time they told me, they had already been hours into the trip, and Florida’s a two day drive, it was the middle of the week so my dad must have taken off work, my mom was still on disability, she would have taken off anyway, it was important to her- that she be there for his last days, hours, minutes, they weren’t too sure, I wish I could have gone too, the same words murmured from my brother and cousins but now we all have our own lives, in different corners of the east coast, this one has midterms, that one can’t get off, I’m on a ten week term and it just wouldn’t have worked, but my dad kept me in the loop and I reciprocated the information among the others, my mother, all of our mothers, sisters, were too alike, barley handling the situation themselves, how could they have helped distribute the updates, but my dad did his best, he described the tears, the cries, the monotonous vibe, I conversed with my cousins about our guilt, our confusion, our sorrow, and I thank God I cannot afford to smell the formaldehyde myself.

He’d pick me up on Friday. My cousin and I weren’t close. But he went to school nearby. He goes to TCNJ, good school. I am only thirty minutes away. But the circumstance brought us closer. And yes we do feel sad. But our mothers are in grief. We both knew we had to. I got it at three fifteen. It was early Sunday/Saturday night. The day does not really matter. I got the text from dad. I am doing my work early. Assignments due Monday, I’ll do tonight. I don’t want to be busy. I’ll have enough on my mind. I am not excited like usual. Going home is usually a break. It’s not that I need to. I just know that I should. Just being there will be enough. To console, comfort, ease, or relieve. It will be awkward and unsettling. My family is not ‘lubby dubby’. I don’t know what to do. Like what should I actually do? Or how should I actually act? Hugging: rare and a little weird. Love you’s: reserved for drunken parties. Whatever, I guess I’ll do it. Swallow my pride, push down discomfort.  I am almost scared to go. Unsure of what awaits at home. 

My grandfather was a tailor and a harvested sugar cane in Guyana. That was while he could work. After the killer bee incident, he was left with a hearing aid and glass eye. I plan on dedicating my next tattoo, a spool and needle above my knee, to him. This symbol won’t represent the love and affection I always had for him-because there wasn’t any. It will be a symbol of regret. I didn’t know him. No one really did. He was always so detached. But I regret not making the effort. I should have tried to know him more. Half hearing, and half seeing, he spoke very little. But on the few occasions when I visited him- I can count on my hands how many times I remember visiting him- the look he gave me (with his functional eye), I knew he knew me. I remember his hands, they were strong, and I would feel the words he didn’t say as he patted me on the back.