Father's Son

The suddenness of the situation won't ever cease to awe me. My brain tissue simply cannot comprehend an abrupt swift of things; it is a magic, a mystery, like a movement of a wizard wand: one swing – and you are suddenly in love, two swings – and you are left on the streets begging for food scraps, three swings – you are dead.

The time has come for the wizard to swing his inevitable wand for my granddad. It was just like in the movies – a call in the late evening, a bland voice of my father: Di is dead, dress up and go to Ba, easy as that. I hit the hang-up button already feeling the uneasy itching inside the chest, inability to comprehend, a fear, but not grief. I am standing in the bedroom of my apartment, puzzled, and then, like a lightning bolt it hits me, with the thunder catching up, exploding in my mind and leaving the white noise hum purring in my ears and the two words reverberating inside my head: What now?

My grandad was the smartest person I have ever known, not the academia-style intelligence - he barely finished secondary education. He had something different. A rare skill to live properly, a knack for life. He loved life. Di has helped me to get where I am right now, and I have an enormous amount of respect for that man.

It has been a week since the funeral; I am standing at the front door of my grandparents' house hesitant to go in, expecting an uncomfortable encounter. With a sigh, I turn the knob of a fiberglass door that leads to the hallway only to find out that the shoe rack lacks the white worn-out plimsolls. To my best luck, dad is not at home. I enter the living room, drop my coat and scarf onto the black leather sofa, and head towards the kitchen. The faint humming from the kitchen stops me halfway. Out of respect to this tradition, I am not going to interrupt Ba chanting a morning prayer. The living room seems bleak at this time of the day, with only one candle caught in between the soft draft from the window, causing the flames to jerk and spit the light around the table. Behind the candle, there is a black and white portrait of Di in his thirties. Ba placed it there right after the funeral for us to remember him young and fresh – another tradition. But I get chills every time I look at the picture – I can see him, yes, but so can he?

"It's a pity you won't remember him like this, only from the pictures," says the creaky voice behind me.

"I am sure it doesn't matter how I remember but whether I do at all" I respond. The guilt begins to cover me as she looks right into my eyes, piercing the snobbish wall of my personality but fails to reach the heart. Life is about choice, you see. If there's a victim, there's a bad guy. I choose the bad guy.

"Come on, then, I'll make you some coffee," she says.

We go into the kitchen, which is tiny but tidy. The sunlight finally begins to glisten through the window, with beams like shimmering bridges transmitting the joy around the room. Will the joy remain after the conversation that will follow?

I take a sip of my coffee; Ba is sitting next to me. She has changed; this week has been bad for her, too. Her face is red and swollen, the gray lumps of hair are spreading on the face head more than ever; her life is split into before and after.

"He asked for money again, you know," I begin. She is not surprised. It was the third time this week only.

"That moron, he'll be the death of me. You should have seen his eyes glistening when they called from grandad's work. He thought there was no will. A fool."

I force the air out of the nose signaling my agreement.

"I had to give him some; collectors keep sending messages to me. He is not paying it at all."

"A spineless act it is" she spews.

Perhaps she is not a victim after all. Ain't I the bad guy then?