By Yin Nwe Ko
I don’t know whose fault it is, Grandpa. Is it mine? Yours? Or your privileged grandson’s? But I know that I am also guilty. I want to say sorry for everything I did even though you can’t hear me anymore. I know… it’s too late now…
My family, my uncle’s family, and my grandparents lived in the same yard. My uncle and his family lived in my grandparents’ house, and our house was next to theirs. There were no walls between the two houses, but rivalries and different religious beliefs created a deep distance between the two families. This distance led to something cold-hearted that now leaves me grieving.
One evening when I got back from school, I saw Grandpa sitting silently under the dim light on the bench in front of his house, staring somewhere unconsciously. It wasn’t like him. On pleasant evenings, he would usually talk about his tedious adventures to his wife, my uncle, or his old friends, or he would sing hymns and pray to God to bless the family. But that evening, he seemed weary and still as a stone. I thought to myself that something was wrong with Grandpa because he seemed lonely.
I considered talking to him but then thought that there was no reason for me to do it for his sake since he had the family he loved the most by his side. I reasoned that what he did was none of my business since he had ignored me. So, I went into my house, feeling there was no point in accompanying someone who hurt my feelings. Since my cousin, the second grandchild, started school, I never heard words of praise or encouragement from him. I tried hard to win his love, but I failed. Even when I showed him my achievements, he would boast about how his new grandson was doing great with his routines. Oh, how much I hated him!
My grandparents had become my new shelter since my parents were usually fighting. As the eldest grandchild, I didn’t want to lose my place as the family’s favourite kid. Most of my sweet childhood memories were with Grandpa, Grandma, and their big black oil-painted wooden house. It was like a second home to me. Later, when Dad lost his job and our family faced a crisis, things turned upside down. Instead of helping, Uncle seemed pleased to become the breadwinner, and we were looked down on like underdogs.
Rivalries grew stronger, and I was no longer welcomed there. There was no more place for me at their breakfast table. I felt kicked out, replaced, and discriminated against by my trusted and beloved people. Since then, I guess all those pitiful feelings turned into jealousy, hatred, and frustration. Oh, how awesome my childhood was! Well, these things don’t matter anymore. Those bitter days are gone. Besides, my family recovered since Dad went abroad.
Honestly, in the early days, I didn’t care about how Grandpa was acting. Day by day, Grandpa still acted the same every evening, and I started feeling bad about myself for ignoring him. I wondered if I should talk to him since he looked sad. All the good times flashed in my mind and eased my bitterness toward him. I murmured to myself that I was his granddaughter and that we used to have good times. But I questioned what I should say since it wasn’t easy to make joyful small talk with someone who hadn’t been in touch for years.
Anyway, I gathered my courage and greeted him, asking what he was doing. He replied that he was sitting, shortly but in a normal voice. I asked where Grandma was, and he said she was upstairs watching TV, keeping his eyes fixed somewhere far away. He seemed to be waiting for someone, perhaps Uncle. I awkwardly said goodbye and walked back to my house. That goodbye lasted for months. I tried not to look at the place he usually sat to avoid awkward eye contact.
One Sunday evening, I saw two Christian preachers outside Grandpa’s house. I murmured to myself, wondering why they were there and hoping it wasn’t another preaching and thanksgiving. My grandparents and dad are Baptists, my mom is a Buddhist, and I chose to be agnostic. As a family tradition, the eldest grandchild needs to be at the family Thanksgiving. I asked Mom if she knew what was going on at Grandpa’s house since I saw the preachers there. She calmly replied that Grandpa was suffering from TB and suggested that I should go and be around them while praying because I was the eldest granddaughter.
I said I wasn’t in the mood to go and went to my room. I was a bit frightened, thinking this might be a final goodbye to Grandpa, but irresponsibly and heartlessly, I didn’t show up at their praying. Reflecting on those days, I can feel the ambivalence of my feelings: love and hatred (or pride inside the unconsciousness). After that day, Grandpa became part of my midnight thoughts. Mom sometimes went and cooked for them, but I still didn’t show up. Every time I tried, something inside my mind pulled me back and tied up my feet.
One misty evening in January, on my depressing birthday, I decided to get out of my room to see Grandpa. He used to come and pray for me on my disappointing birthdays. He was sitting on the bench, looking so bony and unable to tell the long stories he loved. Grandma was beside him. I asked her how he was and if he was getting better. She replied that they were going to hospitalize him next week. I sat silently beside my grandparents for a few minutes, then left.
I wanted to give him a hug and pray for him to get well soon. More than this, I wanted to tell him that I loved him. But I packed back the words and feelings I wanted to show, and the steps toward my house seemed heavy and guilty. With an aching heart and weary head, I closed the door of my room and wept. I felt unforgivable, unable to conquer the unknown feeling pulling me back. Was it pride? Hatred? Or had I just become cold-blooded?
Now, the person I hate has become me. I was despicable as a grandchild who wasn’t good enough for her grandparents. I heard Grandpa was in the hospital but didn’t spend time with him. I spent my time going from home to school on weekdays and gloomily sat inside on weekends, listening to the outside world. I heard my aunt from the next house muttering about how frustrating it was to cook for the whole family and disrespectfully talking to Grandma. I also heard their fights and Grandma crying on the phone while talking to Dad. I don’t know if I was pleased to see these scenes. I’m not sure. But deep inside, I felt guilty and hated myself somehow.
Mom told me Grandpa had passed away in the afternoon. I asked calmly if there would be a funeral at home, and she replied no because he passed away in the hospital. She then rushed outside. I felt numb. Mom’s phone rang, and it was Dad. I heard his sobbing voice as I picked up the phone. He cried painfully, saying he couldn’t believe he didn’t get to see Grandpa at his last breath. He hung up, not wanting me to hear him weeping. I couldn’t stand it any longer as I heard his voice. I silently asked my dad to forgive me, feeling that I wasn’t good enough for Grandpa. Three days later, our family, relatives, and friends gathered at the cemetery to send Grandpa off to peaceful heaven.
As the eldest grandchild, I got to see him before they closed the coffin. In the white coffin, he lay peacefully in his traditional costume among white flowers. I tried hard not to cry as I looked at his face while the priest recited the prayer. Memories of our beautiful days together flashed back, and I burst into tears. The words I never told him screamed in my mind, asking Grandpa to forgive me for not being good enough, for being a devil, and for not being able to take care of him. I wanted him to know that I tried and that I loved him, but I couldn’t make it. I begged for his forgiveness.
I now understand my regret and sorrow. The memories of my grandfather’s kindness and our time together will always remain with me. Although I can no longer express my feelings to him directly, I hope my silent prayers and apologies reach him somehow. Through this reflection, I have learned the importance of cherishing our loved ones while they are still with us. As I continue my journey, I will strive to honour his memory by embodying the compassion and love he showed me. Grandpa, I hope you can forgive me and know that you will always hold a special place in my heart.
(Credited to Patricia)
