Palpation

They wouldn't let me go, and I didn't want to go. I sat there and waited like any good boy would. Playing with the thought of going to see my friends rather than spending time with my family in a dark hour. My grandfather had been sick for a few months now and didn't show any change or redemption to give my father hope. And times they talk about him I'd switch off or switch on too much. Thinking about the Saturdays I used to spend staring at the painting in his front room just above the fire place. It was a Constable and had quite a strong tie to my family. You see, the boy laying on his front, drinking from the river was supposedly my great grandfather. I never found out whether this was true and I won’t even ask for shame of embarrassment. Just another story to keep me occupied on those long, sleepy Saturday afternoons spent at my grandfather's house.

It didn't stop raining all through the month of February, the month he finally left. It rained outside, it rained on the cars, it rained on the children and it rained inside my head, everyday. I'd ask my father most days if I could go see him and he would either evade the question or tell me "No". He told me my Grandfather had not eaten in days and was too weak to handle a visit from me. So, I didn't. I spent my days at a girl's house that tore me in two. She was my first and what I promised myself would be my last. But she wasn't. He got worse and I got drunk. He was alone and I was sleeping next to that girl.

His wife, my grandmother, had passed away a few years before this had happened and I couldn't even begin to imagine the loss. The long days and the even longer nights spent alone as the walls cried for him, the doors closed to him, the TV laughed at him and I never saw him. They used to hold hands, I remember that much, on those sleepy Saturday afternoons. They'd hold hands and I'd play with their ornaments in their glass cabinet that was twice the size of me or on the chair lift that was fitted to their stairs because their legs could barely carry them. And after all of the excitement had been drained out of that I would sit on the leather sofa, stare at the painting of my great grandfather (supposedly) with my head resting on my grandfather's chest and fall asleep. I could feel the palpitation and I prayed my heart would match his. You see, I used to believe in God. I hoped for a God. I wanted to see everyone again. Every relative that I'd lost, every pet that had left me and my girl that was sleeping with someone else all along.

He passed away in late January. I woke to the sound of my family crying and they told me that he had left. From then on my father smiled the saddest smiles. The days became long and the nights even longer. They were spent alone as the walls cried for him, the doors closed to him, the TV laughed at him and I saw it all. He told me that everyone leaves eventually, but I didn't want to believe it.

I stood at his grave in cemetery with my family and we cried.

My father took out the small box out of the shelf and placed it on the table, opened it and took out the watch wrapped around a cushion. "Your grandfather left this for you when he passed away. I don't know whether you want to take it now or whether you want me to look after it for you?" I didn't take it. I couldn't justify it. It now sleeps with me, under my bed. Waiting, looking up at me. Burning my back as I try to fall asleep. Letting me rest my head and then poking me back to consciousness, reminding me of when I used to fall asleep without thinking of him. Now he sleeps next to the Gods.

Now the days have became long and the nights even longer. They're spent alone as the walls cry for me, the doors close on me, the TV laughs at me and he doesn't see a thing.

I'll never shake this little feeling.