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If you read, you will judge. | ||||||||
My Dear we're slow dancing in a burning room |
Sunday, January 30, 2011, 11:31 AM
Then one day grandpa left. He moved to another house, one with too many doors, too many hallways and too many crying faces, too many beeps that would scare me, too many forgotten souls waiting by empty rooms for something to happen, too many white coats and charts, gloves, soap bottles and boiled cauliflowers. Grandpa stopped smiling and he soon stopped speaking. His grey eyes still clinging on to the charm they used to have. I cried but no one saw. I guess that's why they always keep the waiting rooms dark and cold, so that anyone who sat there would feel their senses slowly fading away into the walls and would not feel ashamed to cry, even if for a while, grown men would be children at the hands of their withering parents. 'It will happen. It just depends on how prepared we will be.' I heard a priest say to my father, the disapproving doctor from the corner secretly scorning at the faith my family pledges on one man, a mystic compared to his skill and technique in the field. And then grandpa stopped opening his eyes one day and that was all that could be said. No loud wailing or crying, only a cold body and a small metal cross gripped tight, the body of Christ melding into one with a dry clenching palm. I watch as grandpa walks slowly away from the room, no one else sees, not because they are asleep, but because they're too struck by grief and pain. He turns around and smiles at me, louder than any Hallelujah they can sing, he tells me he's going away. "Where did grandpa go?' They look at me and for a moment are stunned, they try to find the best and lightest possible way to tell me that my grandfather just passed away from cancer, theories of going to a better place, of being re-united with God, of the angel of death coming to cradle his soul away, endless amount of tales to beautify the notion of death. None of them struck me as dramatic or uninteresting, to me, he went home. Someone took him by the hand and he took a taxi home. That was all that needed to be said. A day later, I sit at home watching Hey Arnold drinking some milo as everyone else is at the funeral mourning the loss of a great man. A ginger coloured tabby cat appears at my front gate and stares at me from beyond, I put down the cup and walk slowly to the gate. It smiles at me and licks its paw slowly then sits upright, its brilliant green eyes staring straight into mine. It seemed to smile as I did, quietly I whisper, 'Grandpa?' |
the machiavellian ist
Vanity isn't a sin, a little narcissm wouldn't hurt.Andrew. Music. Food. People. What more could you possibly want? |
partnersincrime
One day when i wake up and find the motive and time to link anybody, i'll let you know. backtoyesterday
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An accidentality production Inspiration from DancingSheep & BONBON:D |
theventingmachine
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