Grandfather

GRANDFATHER
by Peter Alistair

The patriarch is down. His feet are propped up on the end of the bed. His eyes are closed. His face is weary and vulnerable. His hands are on his chest; the right is attached to a bag of liquid nourishment, the left is pure longing—it is reaching out for her daughter.

He barely opens his eyes to recognize me and her daughter. To let us in. “Come, come in. Sigh. You’ve finally come,” his touch seemed to communicate.

He lets go of my mother’s hand, but his hand remains open; it does not return to his chest. I understand. I walk over to the other side of the bed. I take the patriarch’s hand into mine. I still feel the muted throbbing of his power, but it is muted. Longing is what surfaced to his palm and warmed mine. No bitterness.

He is in pain and he is tired. After 85 years, many would be.

I take the patriarch’s hand. I do not say a word. I sense no bitterness.

The patriarch may be in the twilight, seeing one light fade as it gives way to another. The patriarch may know it as well, but he waits. He waits for his own to come. He waits for closure, perhaps. I feel it in his hand, in his eyes that he opened but for a moment. I hear it in his silence. I see in his vulnerable face that he waits.

The patriarch lies in his hospital bed in the ward, his feet propped up on the end, waiting for his own to come.