Spirited home

Ghosts haunt context. The last day I spent with my grandfather, I held his hand for so many hours. I mentioned how soft they were and the nurse told me that they regularly moisturized the hands of coma patients in case visitors came. Then she realized what she said and left the room in a hurry. I remember thinking how angry he'd be if he were conscious. He'd have been bitching about how he'd failed our perennial lineage by dying before 100.

It's hard to watch someone die. Especially hard if it takes a long time. I didn't cry when it happened. Almost nothing changed. He was still lying there with his hand in mine, only there was that horrible sound coming from the machines near his bed. I didn't cry at the funeral either. Well, I did, but it wasn't genuine. I remember sitting there and forcing myself to think of how tragic and sad it was and the tears eventually came.

I didn't cry until months had passed and I was with my family. My cousins and whatnots. We had such a great time and when I went home afterwards I sat in a chair and cried for hours. I remembered how important the family reunions were for him. How glad it made him. Without him, our get-togethers have a void. We still love each others' company, but I keep looking to the corner. And so does everyone else.

I've had a very strange day. It's felt like he's been here. That sort of non-space that memories and ghosts conjure. After all these years, it's surprising. To be haunted.