But I Didn't Cry

I wrote this during my freshmen year back in '09. It's about my great-grandfather and this story is dedicated to him

When my Grampa died, I did not cry. 

My family and I were on our six-month furlough in the U.S., visiting relatives and churches supporting us. We were having a good time; meeting our new little cousins, getting squashed in our aunts’ hugs, playing with the older cousins. Things couldn’t have been better.  

The best time was when our whole family was there. My eight aunts and uncles came; with them were a total of six cousins, five of which were under five years old. After dinner all the men would go into the living room where they would watch football and shout at the players as if they could actually hear them.  And all the women would stay in the dining room to work on a puzzle. That left the oldest kids, my brother Sam and me, even though I was only twelve, to watch all six kids and keep them out of trouble. But it was fun. We would play hide-n-seek and chase Nanas two black cats. 

It was almost like Christmas. But the presents were seeing family and relatives. Playing with cousins. Seeing the leaves in fall. Having the cute boy next door teach you how to rollerblade. I didn’t think about God a single time during those times. 

Winter crept up on us. Snow fell; creating a clean blanket over everything. My brothers and I played in the snow. We made snow forts and snow angels and snowmen. We loved it because we couldn’t do this in the Philippines. 

Then I heard that Grampa, Papa’s dad, was sick, I wasn’t worried. I thought it was just a cold that old people got in the winter. I thought that he would just get better like everyone else did. 

Then our family went to visit him at the hospital. I couldn’t believe it. His cheeks were sunken; his eyes didn’t sparkle anymore. His speech was all garbled; I couldn’t understand a thing he said. 

There were tubes all over him. He had one in his nose, one in his arm and one that went under his shirt. I learned later that he could not eat so they had to feed him the same way he was fed before he was born. 

After I visited him I started getting worried. Things got tense. Nana looked worried; Papa went riding on his motorcycle more often; adults started whispering but when I came near they stopped. 

Then one day my mom came to and told me that Grampa was getting worse. That he didn’t seem to be getting better. Like he was just giving up. But I didn’t give up hope. 

I prayed a lot to God in those days. I prayed hard that God would make my dear Grampa get better. I made promises to God that I would be a better girl if only He would make him better. But I didn’t cry. 

Then, a week later good news came. Grampa was slowly getting better. I felt as if my prayers had worked; that God had heard me. They said that in about a week he would be healthy enough to go home. I had never been happier. 

When Grampa finally went home we visited practically everyday. We spent lots of time with him. We were happy to have Grampa back. It seemed as if things were back to normal. But I was so wrong. 

Two weeks later I looked up to find my mom standing in front of me, tears threatening to fall from her eyes and her lower lip trembling. In broken sentences, she choked out that Grampa had died. He had died quietly in his sleep. Peacefully. 

I was shocked. Grampa had died? I didn’t believe it. But it was true. He was really gone this time. But I still didn’t cry. 

Two days later my mom told me to go get dressed. We were going to go to Grampas funeral. I was sad, so I just went up and sat on my bed. When my mom came up she just looked at me, sighed and took some clothes out of my drawers. She laid them next to me and asked me to please get dressed. I did as I was told then went downstairs. 

We locked up the house then followed Nana and Papa’s car to a big building. As we went in my mom told me that we would meet some of Grampas relatives that I had not met before and that I would also see Grampa. 

We sat down on some chairs near the front. I saw a big casket and immediately knew that Grampa was in there. A little bit later I followed my family up to the casket. I kneeled down and looked inside. There he layed. His eyes were closed, a little bit of a smile on his lips. He looked peaceful; like he was just sleeping. When no one was looking I touched his cheek. It was ice cold. I shivered and stood up. I felt cold for the rest of the night. But I didn’t cry. 

A week after the funeral Granma came to visit us. She came to see us before we left and went back to the Philippines. Before she went back home she gave me a little silver locket. The small heart hung from a thin delicate chain. A little diamond like jewel was set in the upper right side of the heart. I promised her that I would take care of it. 

Two short days later we went back to the Philippines. We got our house cleaned up, visited with our friends and told them all about America. While home I finally put two little pictures in the locket. One of Grandma and one of Grandpa. A week passed; things were back to normal. But I wasn’t happy. I felt as if something was missing. When I went to bed that night my sorrow welled up and spilled out. 

I cried.