A demographic analogy:
At night the pyramids
Lit by floodlights
Reassure the busy whirlwinds of sand
Mirroring the curve of Orion’s Belt
Themselves as unbuckled by time
Ghosts of children
Never born
Corrode away the top
Corrode away the sides
Until
All that is left is a pyramid again
Grotesquely upside-down
The summit in the sand
Has pierced my grandfather’s heart
My grandfather has firm hands, but they are soft and gentle. These hands taught me to drive a nail through a block of wood. They taught me to shakily wield a paintbrush, dripping in black paint. That paint-brush coloured rain-shelters for my three dogs. His hands painted loving scenes of idyllic
I called my grandfather yesterday. He was happy to hear his grand-daughter tell him of her future. My dad speaks briefly to him, loudly, because grand-father doesn’t like to use his hearing aid.
“He’s coming to your graduation party tomorrow,” says my father.
My father walks briskly up the pine stairs, his eyebrows furrowed with worry. Later on, I speak to his sister. She’s drunk – her small graphic design enterprise ruined by larger companies. She and her husband now take solace in state-funded wine. She sobs – “Your grandfather has cancer”.
I want to look after my grandfather and hold those hands that held me as I cried many years before. My dad is shocked at my proposal. I wonder for a moment if it could be that he doesn’t know yet, but the look on his face isn’t one of question or surprise. His eyes are deep and sad.
My grandfather was born on a farm in rural
The country was as much crafted out of envy as ideal. The Finns are deeply jealous, and jealousy inspires violence. The people of the nation inflict pain on themselves before their neighbours. My aunt once related a story to me about her own mother.
“After your father’s and my mother died of cancer when I was 21, I began to search through her past. One thing that always struck me was the photos – countless black and white photos of her holding three little children and beaming. I didn’t know who those children were. And I hardly ever saw her smile all my life. She was always so cold to me, and so cold to your father, too. She never was much of a mother. She never neglected us, but she was never really there. Finding those photos shocked me. I didn’t recognise her as my mother in those photos. Your father doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know.
“I searched through the old town records to find any other family she might have had – see, she never really spoke of her past, and we didn’t think to ask. But she had a brother.
“When she married your grandfather, her brother had been married for some years and had three small children. One was five, the other three, and the youngest not yet two. His wife had been her classmate in school. Now, the family lived only two kilometres away, and regularly visited each other.
“Bad things happened when she became pregnant with your father. Her brother started seeing a mistress. A dark gypsy woman. Somehow, in his mind, he found it acceptable to live within the family. His wife was not able to accept this, and, grabbing her two older children (the youngest was asleep in the crib), she set off running to your grandfather’s house.
“It was the middle of winter, and she couldn’t run very fast through the deep snow. Her husband had time to find a rifle, drink several shots of vodka, hitch a horse to a sleigh and set off following her. She hadn’t even gone half-way when he caught up with his wife and two screaming children. He shot them all there, loaded them into the sleigh, and rode back home. There, he went upstairs to his youngest son’s room and shot him, asleep peacefully in the crib. After that, he took the whole family out to a barn in the middle of the field, and finally, shot himself, too.”
Now, my grandfather’s hands are spotted with age but still soft. In his old age, nobody looks after him but his old wife. He’s a simple country man, unwilling to lock himself into the confines of the old-age provisions, desperately short of rooms and nurses, set up by the government. Even so, there is no space for a proud old man who will not ask for help, or admit that he is sick. A nurse comes once a fortnight to deliver medication.
“Your grandfather hasn’t told anyone of his condition. He expects none of his relatives to look after him, and he doesn’t want to impose himself on anyone in the family,” my father says. “But everybody knows.”
Only one year ago, he taught me the Finnish tango. He didn’t let go even when my feet collapsed beneath. He comes to my graduation party and mutters an excuse to leave shortly, rushing his goodbyes and hurrying to the car, irate. I worry that he won’t make the long drive home safely.
Time passes. A whirlwind happens before my eyes. Social change happens, unhindered, yet I don’t dare say anything. Nobody says anything, when the change trickles through, one grain at a time. I watch it change, yet still, I wake up surprised at the change.
When I call him, he can not hear my words. He thanks me for calling after he’s managed to identify who I am only after I have repeatedly shouted my name into the phone (he still refuses to use his hearing aid) and clicks the phone down. I wonder if he simply didn’t hear me and wanted an end to the conversation.
Sometimes I speak with my grandmother, who has become quite forgetful, and complains of back and ankle pains. The nurse still comes only once a fortnight. It’s been three years since anyone in the family has seen them, and they don’t want visitors.
My grandfather’s name means “Hope”. I hold his soft hands in mine again. They are cold.
By Fon Krairiksh (a.k.a. Valisa Sipila)
12/04/05
fon @ 11:35 pm link to post * *