Unfamiliar Love

A prose about my ...Grandfather...

“We thank you all for being here, in this little…bump…in the family road.”

He was never the most articulate, my grandfather,
And I was surprised to learn he could read,
Though I knew he meant well.
The death of his mother,
It was hardly a bump,
But I could see his best intentions.
I could see he loved her.

Tears gleam in his eyes as he begins to sob.
I might have sobbed, too, had I given a damn.

But this is not of his mother, that I speak.
She was a moderately good woman,
And her death seems strangely surreal, even now.
Like the earth, she seemed timeless,
As though she would always be there.
And even though she is gone,
I still feel as though she is here.

I see my grandfather standing there,
Seeming small behind the podium,
Reading his mother’s favorite Celtic prayer.
Celebrating the life…
Mourning the death…
Of his beloved mother.

I look to my left,
Where my own mother sits,
Her own eyes dry,
And I ponder:
How does my mother feel,
Watching her father mourn his mother
Knowing her own father would not mourn his daugher's death
If he were to outlive she?

How does my mother feel,
Knowing her father ignores her calls,
Knowing her father ignores his own grandchildren,
Knowing her father doesn’t love her,
Knowing her father refuses to love her children because of her?

I cannot imagine how my mother feels.

And watching my grandfather speak,
I question my own feelings,
My own conscience,
As I do not feel anything
Watching my grandfather cry.
Instead, I try not to glare,
Repressing the sickly satisfying thought
Of the roof caving in,
Cracking his skull,
Snapping his neck,
In a slow, terrible catastrophe.
One I’d like to call
Revenge.

I want him to hurt,
As he has hurt my mother.
I want him to pay-- in death,
As he has hurt my mother.
I want him to suffer,
As he has hurt my mother.

This unnatural compulsion towards violence makes my head swirl,
And I shift in my chair, suppressing the nausea.
Hating him
For making me loathe him.
Hating him
For hurting my mother
With every abhorring breath he takes.

Still, I see him stand there,
Reminiscing without apprehension,
The unforgettable life of his mother,
And I want to throw darts at the balding of his head.
I may not have good aim,
But the unwelcome hatred in my heart
Would assure any victory,
And I loathe him
For making me hate him
Without remorse,
Knowing
I will not mourn his loss,
Just has he would not mourn mine.

Just as he would not mourn the loss of my mother.
She’s been dead to him for years.
Yet she’s their only child still alive.

When my mother was seventeen,
Her brother died
In a car accident.
A seatbelt
would have
saved his life.
He was just eighteen…

And I wonder:
Do they wish she’d have been the one to die?
She wasn’t the one driving the car,
Hell, she wasn’t even in the car.
But he’s the one they mourn.
He’s the one they loved.
He’s the one they still love.
But I hold nothing against him for his death.
He didn’t choose to wreck that car.
He didn‘t choose to die.

There is only so much love in this world,
And my grandfather has very little to give.
Certainly not enough for my mother.
     my brother,
    my sister,
    or me.

And all is can ask is why.
Why doesn’t he love my mother?
Why doesn’t he love my brother?
Why doesn’t he love my sister?
Why doesn’t he love…me?

Are we so unworthy?

...Yet, I sit there,
And I watch him.
Mourn.
Mourn his love for her.
And it burns.
It burns to know that he is…
Capable
of love
But hasn’t enough…
Not enough love…
For my mother,
My brother,
My sister,
Or me.

Author's Note

It could use a lot of work...
But it's all true...
I was at my Great Grandmother's funeral yesterday...
And... This is what went through my mind...

Reviews

[Cardinal Robin]

Death is a wicked knave and counterpoint to carpe diem, we are always tempted to lose sight, and again I think yours is still strong, perhaps you have an extreme vision, that too can be beautiful in it's essence, its purity of expression, The way your feelings brood is not like a sociopath, more like someone highly sensitized...some say borderline, I say, " I like Madonna's early stuff"...
You are the unique makings of the artiste...then again you know this...I like you something spinningly!

[The Archangel Gabriel]

Funerals are difficult, sweetie. I tried to cry (after a bunch of years) at my grandmother's funeral when I was alone on the beach. But, my tears dried up for about 20 years until recently. I was told that boys don't cry, so I forgot how for a really long time.

Wonderful work! Keep it up!

Luvu,
Gabe

[Bradly]

Very well written, I can feel the emotion dripping from this piece. It's sad to think how people grow up without parents or grandparents sometimes. My grandfather wasn't a saint, but at least he loved us all, in his own weird way.

I feel sorry for your mother though, I know what it's like to be unloved by your father, especially when you're young. It's his loss though.

Well done on this piece, and all the best for you and your family.

[emmajoy]

What intense feelings there are in this poem... and, is it my imagination or is the format/lay out of it shaped in a pointed instrument?

I can understand how you must feel, the extreme pain and the loathing. How tragic the tale is.

The thought running around about my head is that his feelings, his indifference end up as a loss to your great grandfather, he's the one who should feel deprived, not you. He's losing out, because he's without your family's love. Maybe one day he'll realise that.

Thank you for sharing the skill of this tragic poem

[Kaleidoscope Apocalypse]

I don't want to critique this piece, for there isn't much I can say without feeling as though I would be taking away from this emotion filled write.

It reads smoothly, you know? It makes the reader feel all of the things you were feeling, think all the things you were thinking..

This is a very powerful piece and I think you've done a great job telling this story..

Wonderful write, my dear.