My grandfather died in my grandmother’s arms; he’d fallen just feet from his marital bed, in a room whose blueprint he’d drawn up himself. There, in the frightened embrace of my grandmother, he struggled out his last breath, which he’d held just for her—“Please just hold me, just hold me”. In those last moments of his life, facing the darkness of an abrupt death, following a night of boastful energy which we had all taken as a sign of better times, he fell into the warmth of arms that he had known all his life. In the shakiness that comes from fear and weakness, he found comfort in an unconditional love that would ease this harrowing journey into the unknown. He had all that he needed, he had love.
I have spent a year trying to fathom this love which kept my grandfather alive for almost sixty years, the same love which eased him into that great sleep. I’m not sure whether I will ever know this love, this love which flows with fear and passion. But what I do know is that you’re leaving in the morning, and I don’t know what to say, I don’t know what do. It’s taking every bit of strength in me to keep myself from begging you to stay. All I am is trembling skin and fear, I want you to understand that everything keeping me together will be packed away neatly in boxes and suitcases, shipped off into some northern horizon far from me.
In a room of white walls and a hard floor, I want to keep you close and tell you that everything will be okay—not only because I want you to believe it, but because I need to believe it. However, no reassuring words come—instead, there is just the sound of bodies and sheets, and my soft breath begging you to hold me.
