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I remember my great-grandfathers house, the large rock in front- so large that hardly anyone could lift it- I would always imagine. I would climb this rock that sat in front of his charming small house, which always smelt of home. The door was always high up, the black iron always chilly against my small hand, the pattern on front of the door- checkered diagonally, with the same cold blackness as a frame of the yellowish weaving inside. Inside, as I said, always smell of home. That is the only way I can describe it. There was such welcome-ness, the knowledge that anytime you came, you were wanted. The first room brought to view his chair, old and coming unstitched in the edges, the now unfashionable wooden bracing itself inside the arms. The yellow stitched with white cloth that covered was scratchy, but was always covered up with a welcomed lap. The windows were framed with a thin wood, painted brown, which surrounded a four-panel window. Walking away from the chair, down the hallway, then turning to the left, sat the bathroom. The lace curtains sat in remains of the old man’s wife, my great-grandmother, my mother’s grandmother, and my grandmother’s mother. This covered the small and cloudy-ish cold window. The sink was high, I remember- and the toilet was too- too high for my comfort at that age anyways. Continuing down the hallway placed his bedroom, a place that I never explored much, for the door was always closed with innocuous protection. The best memories though, came from the small room that led from the main room, which one would walk into- with a step down from two glass doors. This warm sunroom held wicker chairs, too many for my young mind to comprehend- or even have the desire to. On these chairs sat these pink pillows, yellow, or white flowers covering them. The floor was harder then inside, a bluish color. A table sat in the room, which held a plant. Outside another set of glass doors was the treasured back lawn- the place of the rhubarb, which is often still talked about today. That rhubarb was an unknown substance for me- the uses unknown- the desires of it wondered about. Nevertheless, all I knew was that it was special. ‘It was my great-grandfathers rhubarb’, I would say, my ever-famous childhood stutter would spill out. The mowed lawn was always kept nice and neat- resulting in a large field. I will always remember how it was always so big. Too big to be discovered in one day, I knew, or actually decided, for we would only go there for daily visits. Around the house, I knew, for with my mother or sister I would go, stood the front lawn again, with the famous rock, and the large tree. I remember the dirt road, and my sister getting her finger caught in the door. On the other hand, maybe it was me. All I remember was that someone’s finger caught in a car door, and tears.
Of course, these visits were not to explore his house, but to see my grandfather. I remember his look of his rough hands, yet they were so pleasantly smooth, as he would touch my face and brush over my hair. My short pudgy body would sit simply against his skinny leg, his often dark and very strait trousers bunching slightly under my weight. He often wore patterned shirts, the buttons always there to play with, with no worry of being pushed or away with a hand or a loud voice. His face I found was very wrinkly, and with my years, was very uncommon. I always wondered how that happened, and look at my father in comparison. His thick reading glasses would come off whenever I would sit there, and hang down on his chest on this sparkly chain, made out of very, very small beads all placed together, yet far enough apart that the chain was able to move. I always looked at this and wondered how long it would make someone to string all those beads. And as my grandfather looked at me, my mind out wander about, looking at pictures that were obviously old of people who I have never seen before, but with some frames that held people who looked like younger versions of people around me. I always felt comfortable there. I always knew that the rock... the rhubarb... the pictures... my great-grandfather with his smooth hands would always be there.
However, I remember when he left, and moved to the hospital, where my mother worked. It was not the same place, I supposed, for these hallways were unknown, the doors too often, the rushing nurses to fast for my liking. People with tubs in weird places were often around, either walking with a stand with a plastic water thingy hanging next to them, or pushed by one of the nurses. These people always went slowly, but they never made me feel anymore comfortable around them. Most of them were wrinkled in the skin like my grandfather, yet their clothing was different. Many looked as if clothed in an assortment of dresses. The walls were too white- everything was too sterile, to cold, to… deathlike.
I was with my mother, and maybe my sister, although I don’t remember them, besides when my mother placed this white mask over my mouth, covering my nose and cheeks. My mother also wore this, and if I remembered, my sister would be as well. I remember the creaks between my cheeks and around the nose... and how big and weird it smelled, and how the elastic that held it in place bunched my hair. My mother explained these were to keep us safe, and for to keep my great-grandfather safe. We walked into this room, a bed placed at the center, with a white sheet hanging on one side of the bed, bunched up against the wall. I remember being on the opposite side of the bed, my face towards the door, by back towards the large window in the room, which was too high for me to see. I did not want to see though, for only my grandfather was in my gaze. His face was too pale, too loose... too tired then ever before. His eyes were glazed over with what seemed a plastic layer, his red veins easy to see. Yellowness covered most of the eye too, with was often also, but yet seemed different; how strong the color seemed to be, how much it effected the entire eye. From his nose came those tubes that I saw a lot out in the hallway, and as I followed the small plastic cord, it went into this unknown tank- or bottle- I don’t remember precisely what it was. I remember the presence of my family there, although they seemed so far away, leaving me with this man who I loved so dearly. His hand shook as he reached for my small hand, inclosing it with the cold smoothness, yet with the gesture, it was filled with warmth. He said something that I don’t remember, yet I know that tears filled his eyes, and he coughed a bit, and then looked up to my mother and made a small smile. I know that she smiled back, most likely with the same intense, yet confused eyes.
That was the last time I saw my grandfather.
I passed his house a while back- the rock there, so small next to the tree that had grown even larger over the years. That was the only thing I remembered. His house looked so different- so... somewhere that I would not want to be. The front yard had been neglected a mowing, and as my eyes searched to the backyard, I knew that one had missed many more.
“There is most likely no rhubarb anymore.” I said to my mother, as I continued to stare out a window of a different generation. She looked over at me, and nodded. She knew too.
Times change-, yet memories do not. They stay with us if we hold on them tight- holding their desire, their wonders, dreams- love that stays with all the emotions involved. Yet we know that times change, we still would not give anything back, although we regret, although we with we did something else, or did nothing at all. Or worst off all, wished that we valued the time together more. But even if we didn’t, we would never give the time back. As once said, “It’s better to love then have never have loved at all.”
Recorded February 1, 2004.
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