Simple Things | ✓

ZINNIA

| ZINNIA: DAILY REMEMBRANCE. |
♠♣♠

I remember you.

You, with the wrinkles near your eyes and the silver hair and the crisp cotton shirt that smelled like sunshine and sand— you, I remember you.

You were my grandfather, you were old and wise and knew about everything. I never believed you were ever wrong in your entire life.

You were quiet and gentle, and you smiled so kindly at me that my entire heart would swell up. Each one of your smiles meant more to me than a million words.

You never doubted me. You held my hand when we went to the park and taught me to look both ways before crossing the road. You would patiently sit beside me when I did my math homework and only smile when I asked you what I got wrong. You sat beside me and told me stories of old; wonderful, wonderful stories. I have never forgotten those stories.

You taught me to always give to the less fortunate. You loved giving. You shared everything you could. You were humble and kind and good. You gave without telling, you gave because it was your duty and not a favor. I remember you, oh God, I remember you.

Every evening, you'd sit near the window with your Bible and fold your brown, weathered hands over it and pray. And everyone would gather around you and we'd gather hands and sing together, and it was the happiest time of my life.

You showed me the stars, you showed me the beauty of the darkness when I hid behind you because I was scared. You taught me the names of the creatures and animals that lived upon the earth. You loved them. You hated the cities. You were happiest when we were in the forest, watching the trees dance.

You valued hard work. You'd go out in any weather to go fetch milk or groceries, no car, just an umbrella. You would go get my cousins from school, you'd go buy the newspaper. You'd go to the fish market.

There was nothing, nothing I believed you couldn't do. You were my hero, you were my everything. You were my grandfather.

And now, I see you. You hide from me, because you are ashamed. You have a bag pinned into your stomach because you can no longer go to the bathroom. They removed your liver.

You are ashamed. I pretend that I haven't seen you weep. I did not know that you could cry. You only smiled, I only remember your smiles.

They say that the cancer had been growing in you for fifteen years. That was my age. You had hidden it that long? How could something so evil, so purely evil, hidden underneath your soft eyes and kind smiles?

Now they say there is no hope. They say that the chemo will let you live five years. Five years are nothing. Five years are seconds, fleeting seconds.

You were thin before, but now you are a walking skeleton. You are unrecognizable. Your bones tear through your shirt, your eyes bulge out of your face. You look as if you may fall apart.

You cannot go get the milk or groceries. You cannot go get the newspaper. You are too weak to walk, and if you do get up, you are hunched over and in terrible pain. It scares me. It terrifies me. I can no longer recognize you.

I watch my father cut your hair. You sit in the chair like a child, frighteningly thin and frail. Your head is bowed, and your hands shake. You had wanted to go to the hairdresser, but you were too weak to walk.

The first chemo treatment was the worst. It was unbearable pain. It was hell. You convulsed and sobbed and screamed in your bed, begging for the pain to leave. At one point, you had grabbed my father and told him that he should've just let you die. I cried.

You couldn't eat any food. Your mouth and lips were broken and bruised, cut open. You couldn't speak. Chemotherapy was really just poison, poison potent enough to drive out another. You curled up in the fetal position and slept, holding my father's hand like he was your lifeline.

That night, I set the Bible in your hands and helped you sit up, and you still read out strongly and surely and full of conviction— but our songs were somber and sad.

My father's cousin came over to visit, and he had severely hurt his leg and had to have surgery.

I will never forget the look on your face. It was sad and terrible, as if you had seen death itself. You touched my arm, looked at me with your soft, sad eyes, and said, "Daughter, there is pain everywhere, isn't there?" I had cried again.

Eventually, no one could come into your room, for fear of infecting you with any germs they had contracted. We were barred from your room, and only my father stayed with you inside.

The doctors wanted you moved to the hospital, so they could monitor you at all times. You had refused. You said, "I may not be able to touch or see the children, but I can hear their voices and laughter from in my room. That is all I want. Please, allow me that."

I was angry at God. I had screamed and prayed and sobbed, but God wouldn't answer my question: How could my grandfather, the kindest man I knew, a good, righteous man, be tortured by something so terrible? There was no answer. The question plagued me every day.

My grandfather was not afraid to die. He was not afraid of anything, not even chemo, though he hated it beyond belief. Death would lead him on. He believed it was his time. You could not question fate.

He had small acts of defiance. He snuck chocolate from the fridge, and winked at me from his room when he ate it. He still put on all his clothing by himself, he read the newspaper. And every day, no matter what, he'd sit up with a Bible in his lap and start to sing.

My grandfather was not broken, nor defeated. He was of the opinion that he was going to live for several more years. These acts of defiance gave me hope. They reminded me of the him I knew before, and made me realize that the past him and the cancer him were one and the same.

My grandfather has taught me more than math and to look both ways before I cross the road— he has taught me strength. I have never known someone as strong, as selfless, as humble as him.

Why didn't I realize it before? Even the cancer must have realized it by now— it is no match for my grandfather.