This would be the last entry from my Creative Writing class. The next entry will be of the regular kind (penned in Cyprus, preferably while camping, written on bear skin, inked with urine) I think so... I don't know... maybe.
Intro. to Creative Writing 202, assignment #5
This week we had to: errrrrr... It seems I misplaced my assignment sheet so I will try to paraphrase the instructions for this assignment: Write a letter.
Note: Some avid readers of the site will notice that I cut corners again and used part of my old material to save time. Wall-staring is demanding. The first three emails stating the article from which I stole, win SUPER-COOL prizes. Seriously, I'll pay S&H to anywhere.
Dear Grandfather,
This is Alexis, your second grandchild from your second daughter. What’s going on with you these days? Actually, your answering this would be terrifying, so please don’t. I’m writing this because I feel like talking to you, even though I do realise your being dead will impede a dialogue from growing out of this first letter of what may well be many,.
By the way, it just occurred to me that you were my second-to-die grandparent. I have no idea what that means, or why I even said it, but hey, a lot of this letter-writing business to a dead guy doesn’t make any sense either.
I’m having trouble figuring out what to include in this introductory letter, but I guess it will come to me later on. It ought to be an account of how our lives were affected by your death, but I don’t see how this could be of any interest to you, the aforementioned dead guy.
When I got the news, I was fast asleep and woke up for the second time that day. The first wake-up call came from my mother. She approached my bed that ominous morning and said: “Alex, I’m going to your grandfather, do you want to come?”
I answered No, and she said, holding back the tears I didn’t see then, but can see now:
“The doctor said Grandpa is in his final moments and we hurry.”
“Do you want me to come?” I said.
“No. No. It’s ok. Stay here and sleep.”
I didn’t answer. I slept. I knew then, as I know now, that I was pushing away my last moments with you, Granddad. And I did nothing. I slept. Next thing I remember is my mother’s second visit, opening my screeching bedroom door and entering in her usual silent manner. The air was heavy, mortifying, and I knew you were dead. I thought Oh shit, and asked my mother if you were, in fact, dead.
She nodded and I said: “Shit. Fuck. Shit. What happens now?”
She hugged me and cried. After a moment, I hugged her too and she cried harder.
Some event become completely hazy in a situation like this, while others are carved permanently in your cerebrum, as if your brain says Write this down, goddamn it, it’s important. What your brain always fails to tell you, however, is why.
I remember entering your bedroom, where Grandma wailed over your dead body, moaning, exhausted from tears and cries of Why?! to her god. I helped the coroner lift you into the funeral car. Grandma was kneeling by your empty bed, hugging your pillow. I sat on the bed and placed my hand on her shoulder.
“He’s gone, Alexis. Your grandfather is gone,” she said.
I wanted to say: Good! The poor bastard suffered long enough. I’m glad he’s dead. But I didn’t. I kept silent. I really was happy you died, Pappou. I really was. Because you were suffering. At least I thought you were. Were you?
I did not cry for you, Pappou. Not once. I deprived myself of those relieving tears for so many reasons, too many to reveal them all now. I recall detaching myself as far as possible, becoming the ultimate observer. Boy, was I wrong. I needed those goddamn tears so bad. But I couldn’t cry. I occupied myself with capturing my family’s reactions and pain. I was a video camera focusing on everything with complete objectivity, detached, without judging.
I was the only relative, who lowered your shiny black coffin into its designated place, your last resort, your six feet under. How could they let me be the one to do it? Everybody was vexed by the task and looked the other way. So I had to do it. Supposedly, I was the tough one when it came to matters of death. Yeah right! Perhaps I am the tough one when it comes to death. Who knows? I ought to find out sometime. Some other time. People deal with death in their own way, and they mourn in their own space. You said that to me. Remember? I do it inwardly, but I’m absent. Perhaps I’m doing it right now. Every key stroked here and now could be a tear shed there and then. Will I ever stop typing this futile letter?
Anyway, I wanted to say I was sorry about everything, your death and all, but I don’t feel like it now. Maybe in a second letter.
See you around.
-Alexis-
My CW professor commented: nice idea implying that this is the first letter of many. B+