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The Smell Of Death
I remember sitting on the edge of the bed, with my older sister. We both held one of Grandpa's hands, and both of our faces were covered in tears. We whispered things to him as we rubbed the cold, limp hand, hoping he could hear the words we said. I do not remember the things that she said... I wanted him to hear the things that I was saying. Death was looming nearer, and I had plenty to say. You see, Grandpa and I never had a close relationship. He and I shared very few conversations, because it was hard to understand what he said. He had had many strokes for the past 20 years, making speech a difficult task to accomplish. So we sat in silence up until this day, and I needed him to hear a lot. I kept telling him I loved him so much, how sorry I was that I had never showed him how much he meant to me. Then there was silence, neither me nor my sister wanted to say anything at the moment. I just stared at his face, at the morphine drip, at the hospice nurse, at the bony hand that I held... I didn't understand why this hurt so much
