Not Enough

Thu, 02/13/2014 - 16:59 -- April_K

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          I sit, looking at my grandpa's crinkled face,

his sad eyes tell many stories

            that his lips can barely stand to say.

 

            My heart aches for him. I feel his pain, but in a different way.

 

            Tell me about the war, about Grandma, I say.

His eyes glaze over as his mind whisks him away

to another place in the past.

 

            They sent me away, he says. Two years. To Germany first. I guarded the base. Never shot anyone, though.

           

            I wait, knowing there's more.

 

            I don't know how I survived, he says, I couldn't stand to be away from her. Not for that long.

                        You fought in the Vietnam War, right, I inquire.

            He grunts, disgusted by the thought of the war. Of killing. Of the savagery of men.

            Yes, he replies, it was horrible. Horrible, horrible, horrible. He shakes his head solemnly.

 

            I can tell he does not want to go on talking about Vietnam. It is too difficult to express in words the events that are relived behind eyelids. 

            What is true human nature, I think, What is it really?

 

            He speaks again: I was so relieved when I finally came home, came home to her. It feels like just yesterday. His eyes transform into pools of blue. But I can't believe she's gone, he says.

            I miss her, he weeps, I lost my loved one. My Dear...

 

            A vision of my deceased grandmother flashes in my mind. She's in the casket, her fair, ghostly-white hands folded atop her funeral gown. She looks ironically beautiful.

            My sickly grandfather stands feebly by the mahogany box. Raging rivers flow.

            He wants to kiss her lips. Those cold, lifeless lips. But he can't, so he talks to her instead, sweet nicknames coo from his mouth, and the rivers flow harder.

           

            I know, Grandpa. At least she's in a better place. Think about that, I offer.

            Oh, I wish I were there with her now. Shoulda just had a double funeral. She goes, I go, he says.

            No, don't say that. You'll see her again. You'll--

            I have nothing left to live for, he sobs. Nothing. It's all gone. I have nothing- Geen, he mutters in his native tongue.

            But you have us. Your children, grandchildren, great grandchildren...

 

            “ It's not enough.”  

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