For Grandpa, prehumously.
“I lost half my sight. That’s the best part of the world.”
My grandpa said these words, and I never wanted to say anything again, because it wouldn’t be worthy. He had said it all and I sat there dumbly pondering death and life and beauty and sight and existence.
He sat there. His hands–hands that had built bridges and grown trees and flown World War II fighter jets–sat in his lap and he hurt because his world was slowly and achingly disappearing.
Then I thought of the wagon he gave me for my second birthday. I don’t see it by remembering, but I see it through photographs, sepiaed in my mind.
“Megan. Megan, come here.” His vaguely withered hand encircled mine, leading me out into summer and green leaves and cut grass.
It was red, and shiny. And the greatest thing I had ever seen.
“Come back here, Meg. Look.”
I followed his hand around to the back of the wagon. There, forever memorialized in shiny gold adhesive glory, was my name. M E G A N. It was beautiful, and I still remember.
But then he lost half his sight, and who knew when the other half would go. While I pondered, I sat there and ached with him. I didn’t feed him trite words or euphemisms, telling him it would be okay. I sat there.