Coffee With Grandpa
~Spencer Davimos~
The final car ride to grandpa’s house felt like a funeral procession. The only sound was the air conditioning. Playing music felt disrespectful to my mother, who had already reached the grieving phase. Mom never expressed her emotions through facial expressions. I don’t think I ever saw her raise an eyebrow when my father and I would surprise her with bed and breakfast on mother’s day— not because she wasn’t happy, but because she is better at demonstrating her feelings through her hands. Rather than let out a shriek of joy that day, she stretched out her arms and shook her hands like a Broadway dancer striking her final pose at the end of a musical number. That day, she showed her mourning by anxiously drumming her fingers against the steering wheel and chewing her nails at every stoplight. As we pulled into the driveway, I noticed that the site of his house looked like a graveyard. The plants were either falling over from months without watering, or were ripped from the soil, their roots exposed like veiny arms. A cryptic feeling washed over me, and by her looks, it did Mom, too, who started to go pale in the face. “Do you want to go in with me?” I asked. I was hoping she’d say yes, not only because she had gone months without visiting him, but also because I was scared to face him alone. I expected he’d look worse from my most recent visit the week prior, and I would’ve appreciated the company of my Mom, comforting me. “I’m okay. It’s important you have your alone time with him.” “I think he’d be happy to see you.” “I don’t think so. Your grandpa loves you more than anyone else in the family.” I hated whenever Mom said “my grandpa”. I used to think that purposely not calling him her dad was an underhanded way of rejecting him as a parental figure in her life. “My grandpa” couldn’t reclaim his memory after Alzheimer’s took it from him, just as a paraplegic can’t regain feeling in his legs.
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