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Description
My grandfather sits in a wheelchair by the window in the old people's home with his chin leaned into his chest, mumbling incessantly and unintelligibly to himself and drooling a little from the right corner of his mouth. Mom can't come here anymore. She just breaks down at the sight of him so I sometimes come by myself and sit with him in silence for a while.

It's a sad end to a long and hard life, and I morbidly think to myself that if a political party stepped forth now with the legalization of euthanasia on its agenda, I'd vote for it. After two strokes and a hemorrhage, topped with severe senile dementia, what is the point of letting people exist like robots? I know grandpa thought the same. Before his speech was impaired, he often said that the pacemaker was one of his biggest mistakes, and that people should be allowed to go when it was time to go.

Terrible as it sounds, I'm already starting to think about the obituary that I, having the best way with words in my branch of the family, will be requested to write, hopefully – yes, hopefully – within a year. The problem is that even though this person has been around all my life and much longer than that, I know next to nothing about him.

Perhaps I have over-idealized grandparents. They are different from parents. Parents you can see tired, angry and unhappy but grandparents are always in a good mood. They are the sweet, gray-haired, wrinkle-faced people who are there to brush the tears from your cheek and impart wisdom to help you become a better person – unlike parents they can do this without coming across as tyrannical. Where did all that wisdom come from? From the experiences accumulated by a long, long life, of course, but I've hardly ever thought about it like that.

It's strange to think that grandparents have a past. I mean, you know it in a sort of an abstract way, but it doesn't really hit you until you want to say something about it and you have no words. When all you can come up with is: "My grandfather was a good and kind old man with whom I often had enjoyable conversations until he was laid low by various ailments. Then he started talking nonsense and stopped recognizing me and remained so until he died." Then it dawns on you that your grandparents had a life, long before your existence. That they used to be young; children who had grandparents themselves; moody teenagers who slammed doors; adolescents who had their whole life ahead of them.

I do know that my grandfather grew up in the countryside, and it always puts into my mind a grainy, sepia-toned picture of a young man wearing dirty boots and a tattered shirt with rolled-up sleeves and suspenders and a flat cap on his head. It's a generic image which tells me nothing about grandpa.

I never asked him what it was like to grow up there, whether he enjoyed the peaceful but demanding agricultural work or whether he detested it and dreamed of exotic places. I never asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, whether he fought with his parents because he wanted to be a pilot while they wanted him to be a farmer or a banker.

I know that he came to the city to work for the Americans during the war, but I never asked him about his experience of war even if it was only indirect. Was he ever afraid? Was he one of those who lost a girl to an American soldier?

I know through calculations that he must have met grandma around that time. Of course, I never asked how they met or whether he was ever in love with someone else. In my narrow mind, grandparents are a constant, a unit – grandma and grandpa – inseparable until death do them part and even then inseparable in the memory. One without the other doesn't make sense. One or the other with someone else is just utterly mind-blowing. Of course, that's just naïve thinking on my part. Why shouldn't they have had other relationships in the past, way before they became grandma and grandpa? Why shouldn't they have had French kisses, heartbreaks, one-night-stands…Not that I want to know any details about that – and this train of thought must be derailed before causing me brain damage.

I look at grandpa and try to glean some of the old wisdom and comfort from his eyes, but they are clouded over and no more glint with hidden knowledge. I wish I could ask him what his happiest memory was; what he would take, if he was exiled to a deserted island and could only take three things with him.

I help him lean back in the chair from which he has been slowly leaning more and more forward until he is in an uncomfortable position. I guess our roles are somewhat reversed now, though of course, I have a long way to go.

When I stand to kiss him goodbye, he's still mumbling and I strain to make out the words. I've always brushed it off as senile nonsense but, really, it must mean something, at least to himself. I feel like I must know it, like it's the last chance I'll get to gain some understanding of this stranger I've known all my life. It sounds like 'wrong' but might as well be 'long' or 'gone' or something such.

I think about it on the way out and decide it sounded the most like 'wrong.' That is not a word I associate with grandparents. Grandparents are always right. They can't do anything wrong, except pushing the wrong buttons on remote controls. They don't lie or steal or whore or drive illegally – except maybe illegally slow – but then, why not? They're just human, after all – an absurdly surprising notion to my suddenly obviously naïve mind. I mean, this is something I've always known, but somehow never taken in. I wouldn't call it a cosmic realization, but it's striking when it hits you, sort of like suddenly noticing that you're breathing or blinking.

From the old people's home, I go to grandma's who still has enough strength and wits about her to live at home. She seems small and weary and more wrinkly than ever, but she smiles that special grandma smile at me. It's a joyful, loving, accepting, knowing smile and it makes me feel that she has real faith in me and my abilities, despite my own new-found doubts.

We sit down in the little kitchen and grandma makes coffee. After a while of chatting, we settle into silence until I pull up a notebook and pen. Then I look up at grandma who is sitting opposite to me, holding her cup with both her wrinkled hands and smiling, always smiling. "So grandma, can I ask you a few questions?"

Description
My grandfather sits in a wheelchair by the window in the old people's home with his chin leaned into his chest, mumbling incessantly and unintelligibly to himself and drooling a little from the right corner of his mouth. Mom can't come here anymore. She just breaks down at the sight of him so I sometimes come by myself and sit with him in silence for a while.

It's a sad end to a long and hard life, and I morbidly think to myself that if a political party stepped forth now with the legalization of euthanasia on its agenda, I'd vote for it. After two strokes and a hemorrhage, topped with severe senile dementia, what is the point of letting people exist like robots? I know grandpa thought the same. Before his speech was impaired, he often said that the pacemaker was one of his biggest mistakes, and that people should be allowed to go when it was time to go.

Terrible as it sounds, I'm already starting to think about the obituary that I, having the best way with words in my branch of the family, will be requested to write, hopefully – yes, hopefully – within a year. The problem is that even though this person has been around all my life and much longer than that, I know next to nothing about him.

Perhaps I have over-idealized grandparents. They are different from parents. Parents you can see tired, angry and unhappy but grandparents are always in a good mood. They are the sweet, gray-haired, wrinkle-faced people who are there to brush the tears from your cheek and impart wisdom to help you become a better person – unlike parents they can do this without coming across as tyrannical. Where did all that wisdom come from? From the experiences accumulated by a long, long life, of course, but I've hardly ever thought about it like that.

It's strange to think that grandparents have a past. I mean, you know it in a sort of an abstract way, but it doesn't really hit you until you want to say something about it and you have no words. When all you can come up with is: "My grandfather was a good and kind old man with whom I often had enjoyable conversations until he was laid low by various ailments. Then he started talking nonsense and stopped recognizing me and remained so until he died." Then it dawns on you that your grandparents had a life, long before your existence. That they used to be young; children who had grandparents themselves; moody teenagers who slammed doors; adolescents who had their whole life ahead of them.

I do know that my grandfather grew up in the countryside, and it always puts into my mind a grainy, sepia-toned picture of a young man wearing dirty boots and a tattered shirt with rolled-up sleeves and suspenders and a flat cap on his head. It's a generic image which tells me nothing about grandpa.

I never asked him what it was like to grow up there, whether he enjoyed the peaceful but demanding agricultural work or whether he detested it and dreamed of exotic places. I never asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, whether he fought with his parents because he wanted to be a pilot while they wanted him to be a farmer or a banker.

I know that he came to the city to work for the Americans during the war, but I never asked him about his experience of war even if it was only indirect. Was he ever afraid? Was he one of those who lost a girl to an American soldier?

I know through calculations that he must have met grandma around that time. Of course, I never asked how they met or whether he was ever in love with someone else. In my narrow mind, grandparents are a constant, a unit – grandma and grandpa – inseparable until death do them part and even then inseparable in the memory. One without the other doesn't make sense. One or the other with someone else is just utterly mind-blowing. Of course, that's just naïve thinking on my part. Why shouldn't they have had other relationships in the past, way before they became grandma and grandpa? Why shouldn't they have had French kisses, heartbreaks, one-night-stands…Not that I want to know any details about that – and this train of thought must be derailed before causing me brain damage.

I look at grandpa and try to glean some of the old wisdom and comfort from his eyes, but they are clouded over and no more glint with hidden knowledge. I wish I could ask him what his happiest memory was; what he would take, if he was exiled to a deserted island and could only take three things with him.

I help him lean back in the chair from which he has been slowly leaning more and more forward until he is in an uncomfortable position. I guess our roles are somewhat reversed now, though of course, I have a long way to go.

When I stand to kiss him goodbye, he's still mumbling and I strain to make out the words. I've always brushed it off as senile nonsense but, really, it must mean something, at least to himself. I feel like I must know it, like it's the last chance I'll get to gain some understanding of this stranger I've known all my life. It sounds like 'wrong' but might as well be 'long' or 'gone' or something such.

I think about it on the way out and decide it sounded the most like 'wrong.' That is not a word I associate with grandparents. Grandparents are always right. They can't do anything wrong, except pushing the wrong buttons on remote controls. They don't lie or steal or whore or drive illegally – except maybe illegally slow – but then, why not? They're just human, after all – an absurdly surprising notion to my suddenly obviously naïve mind. I mean, this is something I've always known, but somehow never taken in. I wouldn't call it a cosmic realization, but it's striking when it hits you, sort of like suddenly noticing that you're breathing or blinking.

From the old people's home, I go to grandma's who still has enough strength and wits about her to live at home. She seems small and weary and more wrinkly than ever, but she smiles that special grandma smile at me. It's a joyful, loving, accepting, knowing smile and it makes me feel that she has real faith in me and my abilities, despite my own new-found doubts.

We sit down in the little kitchen and grandma makes coffee. After a while of chatting, we settle into silence until I pull up a notebook and pen. Then I look up at grandma who is sitting opposite to me, holding her cup with both her wrinkled hands and smiling, always smiling. "So grandma, can I ask you a few questions?"