Posts: 541
From: USA
Registered: Feb 2005

posted March 06, 2005 10:30 PM         

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I am going to enter this into an essay contest at school...can you guys read it, give me feed back? Suggest a better name for it?

I was told to write an essay about a lesson I learned from an older person. Well, here it is. In raw black and white print. My story is not a beautiful one, or at least, I do not think so. It is not a happy one, nor a funny one. My story, the one I am about to tell, is a tale of love, a tale of death, a tale of pain. It is a tale about a man watching down on me, even now as I type away the words. A man who watched over me when I was little. A man who was once my grandfather.
Well, now, where to begin? Should I tell you about my childhood, about my grandfather’s role? Should I tell you from when we first heard the news? Should I start from when we first set foot in the hospital? Or when we first fell eyes on him? Most stories would start from the beginning. It makes sence that way. But this story is not most story. This story is my story, and my story will start from the middle, starting from the middle, and ending at the end.
He had lung cancer, or at least, that’s what the doctor said. He wouldn’t last more then three months. I didn’t know how to feel; I couldn’t feel very well back then. I suppose I was numb, I suppose I couldn’t love, found it hard to love. I supposed many things. But when we first saw him, a brief hair raising grief seemed to poke through the drugged calm I had created for me. I don’t know why, maybe it was because of the smell in the room, or because of the sickly sunlight coming through the window. Maybe it was because he was drugged with pain killer. Maybe it was because he looked like a broken rag doll, lying there propped up by IV poles, with needles in his arms. Maybe it was because he already looked dead, as if he was already gone.
He woke up when we entered the room. He gurgled a greeting, and tried to raise his hand. It flopped onto the side, and he gave up. I don’t quite remember what happened then. I didn’t remember much. But I remember him smiling at me, or smiling as much as he was allowed. I remember him talking to us, but I felt…distant. Perhaps it was better to start from the beginning. But it is too late now, so I’ll continue the way I am. I remember him taking my hand, and asking how I was, and I answered, and then I told him about the pet rat we had, who ran away and now we can’t find him. I think he laughed, and I think the adults around us chuckled as well. I think I sat down by his bedside, and told him more stories, and I think he listened. But all the time, I kept thinking about how none of this matter, how it won’t matter much to me if he died, how he was really not that important in my life. I kept thinking about how no one was really very important to me, how I couldn’t allow them to be, how I didn’t find them to be. I didn’t love him, he didn’t love me. No one loved me then. I wouldn’t allow love.
Then my turn was up, and I got up, and yielded my chair to whomever came next. I had a small smile on my lips. I turned, and smacked my knee rather painfully into the bed. He broke of the conversation, and turned to me, and in his harried gurgling speech asked me if I was all right. Even through the drugs. Even through the haziness. I smiled, said yes, and left the room, feeling as if my heart was breaking.
As if my heart, and the wall I’ve so carefully built, was shattering into a million pieces. He love me, that much I know now. And I love him. And that was what I learned from him. That I was loved, that I was cherished. That even though I haven’t seen them in years, their love for me was still strong. I learned that I was not alone in this world, never was, never will be. I learned that I can love, that I can be loved, that I do love and that I am loved. I learned that love is greater even then distance, greater even then death, and that love lasts forever, and that it never takes a break, that its always there, if you would only reach out and grab it, only reach out and break the wall around you, and take the love offered.
And his love, my grandfather’s love, is still with me now.
Even now.
Christina Eavyn Warner

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Posts: 5301
From: Ontario Canada
Registered: Jun 2005

posted March 07, 2005 09:38 AM         

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Thank You.

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Posts: 1382
From: Portland, OR
Registered: Jan 2004

posted March 07, 2005 11:03 AM         

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What a beautiful story

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Posts: 4456
From: Stafford, VA USA
Registered: Feb 2005

posted March 07, 2005 12:30 PM         

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thanks for sharing your story. It is very touching.

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Posts: 541
From: USA
Registered: Feb 2005

posted March 07, 2005 09:06 PM         

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I'm glad you like it, but do you think its good enough to win a contest? I hope it is...and I know there's tons of run ons and all...giggles

christina EAvyn WArner

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