This is a narrative I initially wrote for school, but I fix it and reread it every now and again and thought that I should share with the blogging world:
It loomed large in front of me. With each step I took I wanted to turn back, but I knew he wouldn't want me to. He would want me to face it bravely, courageously-like he had always taught me. With my chin held high I stepped forward on the mossy grass, and eventually reached it. It was a tombstone, his tombstone. I read the blurb on it and thought about how a few simple words didn't do justice for a man of such high stature in my heart. While glancing over the cemetery I saw a wide array of tombstones, varying in size and shape. This one was the only one to hold my attention, this one was more than a gray slab of engraved cement. Then I closed my eyes, and my memory took me back to that one night, just 6 years ago- when the man I respected most became a part of this dreadful place.
My grandfather had been sick for a while, but each time the doctors would say 4 to 6 weeks left, he would outdo the odds. He was upright in his bed, connected to tubes and wires, but when I looked at him I pretended they weren't there. I would tell him everything about my day, because it seemed like he was the only one to care. I was never afraid to talk to him, even when I had to tell him something I knew he wouldn't like hearing- he would listen attentively, smile, and tell me that he knew I could do better next time, and then he would assure me that there would be a next time. I would beg him to tell me stories of when he was younger, and he would tell me that my youth was much more important to him. Then I would run downstairs to help my grandmother make dinner, and me and him would eat together, even though he had to eat in his bed. And that was how I spent 2 years of my life, every day after school, and never once complained.
Until one afternoon, I dumped my books the second after I crossed the threshold, pounded up the stairs and found my grandfather, sleeping. I knew something was wrong immediately, grandpa was always read to greet me with a smile. I burst out in tears as my grandma told me he was just taking a quick nap, but I knew she was lying- he said that he would always be waiting for me. I waited patiently for him to wake up and when he did I burst into tears again, he didn't know who I was. I told him all about my day as he just stared at me blankly. I even remember telling him something that wasn't true in hopes of a reaction, but sadly there wasn't one. I still held his hand, and helped him eat, and watched him struggle. When it came time for my mother to pick me up I threw a fit because I knew I couldn't just leave. But after an hour of hysterics it became clear I wasn't going to get my way, so I went home and made my grandma pinky swear she'd call if anything happened.
I went home and went to sleep immediately, for it had been a long day for an eight year old. I had a nightmare, that my grandfather would pass and I'd show up too late. Then, I pounded down the hallway to my parents room and demanded they drive me to my home away from home, just 8 blocks away. Fortunately, I had gotten my way, and just as I had done hours before I dashed across the threshold, hustled up the stairs two at a time, and flung my grandfather's bedroom door open in haste. The routine changed drastically this time, I threw myself to my knees at his bedside, grasped his hands tightly, and told him all about my dream. He started to cough, the nurse demanded I leave the room but I wouldn't let my grip loosen, as I finished telling him about my horrid nightmare he managed to choke out the words, "I'll never let that happen", that's when the morphine drip started, or as I called it "death juice". He looked so peaceful in his sleep, but yet so motionless, I demanded the nurse make sure he was still alive every five minutes. That was my first all-nighter, I refused to leave my spot for many hours. As day light peaked he awoke and had a coughing fit, I demanded they let him stay awake before inducing him with more death juice. In the two hours he stayed awake he told me his plans for me, that he had perfected in his sleep, how he knew exactly what I was going to do when I grew up, and how I would never make the wrong choice with his words ringing in my ears and his teachings engraved in my heart. He told me that I was courageous to stay with him, and how he loved me more than anything. He went back to sleep and I was forced to remove myself from my position to eat and change. I came back and in a matter of hours he changed drastically. The smile he had greeted me with for so long was so weak now. He told me how important I was and how it would be impossible for me to miss him because he had made sure he would always be with me. Then, he fell back on to his headboard gasped, and froze. The nurse had to work around me and my tears because I wouldn't leave.
Two days later at the funeral, I heard hushed tones about how my grandfather died in my arms, and how horrible that must have been. I wanted to explain to them, that I wouldn't have had it any other way, but I knew they wouldn't understand. Nobody would understand, the bond we had was one of a kind.
My eyes opened and I found myself gripping the tombstone as I once had gripped my grandfathers hands just a mere 6 years ago. I took a deep breath, said my prayers, and told my grandfather about my life- just like I had every day of my life for two years. I heard his voice tell me how proud he was of me that I kept our tradition going, and that just because he wasn't there physically, not much had changed. I then proceeded to remove the silly flowers blocking his name, because I knew he hated flowers, just like me, and I knew he wouldn't want his grave site looking frivolous. So I turned back, and told myself once again, that grandpa was still right, and I was glad I went to visit him. I almost said "see you next time" but I didn't have to, because he is with me every day, whether I know it or not.
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