Diary of a lady - 12

I have to call my grandfather tonight. But I know I will not get to speak to him. He will be lying on his bed, awake but apathetic to anything around him. My grandfather is dying. It is a slow death, where he lies in bed all day, too weak to lull his mind in front of the television set.

His pipes lie abandoned; his leather-bound books are collecting dust. I want those books -- early editions of War And Peace, David Copperfield, Crime And Punishment, Lorna Doone, Vanity Fair – I want them all. Maybe when the Reaper finally takes pity on my grandfather, I’ll be able to claim my old friends. And friends they are -- as a child, I would sit with those tomes for hours on end, grappling with long-winding sentences and complex plots, referring to the Oxford Dictionary.

What is my grandfather thinking of? Eighty-two years on Earth is a long time -- and the memories can be more cathartic than the daily TV soap. But are his memories fading? Can he no longer remember the face of his grandmother? I do not know. He lies on his bed, waiting for the Sandman. In sleep he can find some peace.

His attitude is so unlike my granduncle, who, as he grew older, decided to live in a fantasy world. So, too the horror of my family, he’d talk about his new wife, who it seems was as well-endowed as the late Anna Nicole Smith. When this granduncle died, we found his cupboard stacked with books from Russian novelists and philosophers. It seems he was a closet Communist. I made off with a book called Little Golden America, 1936 edition. It’s old and moth-eaten, but it’s mine.

My grandfather raised four children, and made a comfortable home for himself. He loved Anna Karenina, which he’d read with his glass of brandy.

My grandmother watches this depredation of age and disease with equanimity. Soon, she too will also walk down that road. But they’ve raised four children, they did their duty. Now they can only wait. That’s the way things are for them.

And why am I thinking about this? I’m feeling unsettled, cagey and restless. If I delve too deeply, I will be assaulted by emotions and thoughts I am trying not to think of. In times such as these, I look back at my grandfather’s house. I’m sitting in the verandah on the first floor. There’s a storm raging outside like a mad bull, but I’m reading Crime And Punishment, untouched by the chaos and mayhem around. I’m reaching for the Oxford Dictionary.