You clasped your hands like an old buddha, fingers intertwined together. You did that out of habit, even when you lay there unconscious on the hospital bed. We’d unclasp them and watch you clasp them back together. That small action told us you were still there.
The caretaker told us a funny story. Even though you had forgotten who most people were, you knew what 300×450 was. You’d work that out on the back of the pillow, your fingers drawing out long, imaginary strokes.
You were so excited that we had arrived, your breathing became too frantic and I had to stroke your chest, the lest I could do to soothe the pain.
There were so many questions that I wanted to ask you. Like how did you find your way out of your village and into the big city? You were just a small boy then, and the roads were unpaved, but you took that journey all by yourself.
It is comforting to know that you did things like that. If you can do it, then I can do it too. After all, we are related, I just haven’t found my stride like you did.
Had I known earlier about your feats, before your memory faded away, I would’ve asked you over and over how you did it, until your memory became mine.
I know you forgot about a lot of things. Dad filled me in on your condition over the years. But when I leaned over your white hospital sheet, and shouted my name into your deaf ear, I saw you nod and shed a tear behind those closed eyelids.
Because as forgetful as you are, that gentle nod told me that no illness can make the heart forget.
So grandpa, even though you are not there to answer my question: how did you find your way into the big city, when you were just a little boy?
When I leaned over and saw your teardrop, you gave me your answer.
The heart always knows.
Written on the two year anniversary of my Grandpa’s passing.