Accept the truth: my grandfather is dying.
Yes, yes, you can say "well, we all are." But, you aren't moving to a hospice facility, and you know where you are, who your loved ones are.
And writing seems so empty.
I can't express this feeling, you just know it. If you've watched a very sick loved one fall apart, you just know. It's not an experience you can tie up in words.
It's a tightness of the chest.
The tears you hold back so the rest of the family doesn't all burst into tears.
It's the feel of the bottom of the tissue box.
The taste of cold coffee and vending machine snacks at 930pm.
It was the feeling in February when he was in the hospital the last time, right before his birthday and I silently made a prayer, "please don't let him die before he can read that stupid Jean Auel book he's been asking about since I've worked at a bookstore." And it's the knowing that even though he got the book, he's been too sick to read very far. And you know he never will.
It's that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach when he asks for you, and about some books, and you have no idea what he's talking about.
It's watching your aunts and mother cry.
(which hurts more in a way)
So, Tristan Allen is keeping me company. Along with Bach. And the cloudy April sky.
It's a small comfort.
