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January 13th,
Grandfather’s funeral was today. I don’t think I even mentioned his passing here; it’s been a while since I had the time to write for that very reason. Father’s trying to act unaffected, but I know it’s had some kind of impact on him. He’s been… Off, lately. Stricter. My lessons have gotten so intense that I haven’t even had the energy to write about them. It’s strange that this has moved him so much; I never got the impression that they were particularly close. And yet, day after day, it’s been an almost non-stop cacophony of funeral preparations. A portrait’s been commissioned. They’re talking about hanging it in the parlour. The idea unsettles me. I’m not really sure why.
It’s not as if I knew him all that well, to be honest. I saw him maybe once or twice a year until the last few months, in which he started coming over more and more frequently; towards the end, he was here once a week. Suddenly, we were playing chess together. Painting. We actually got along well. He was funny, insightful, even if something about him was kind of strange. That’s not speaking ill of the dead, is it? If you’d met him, journal, you’d feel the same.
The last time I spoke to him was the weirdest. He’d asked me to step out into the garden with him. The snowfall had only just eased off, the frost dusting the flowerbeds like something out of a postcard. I’m not sure how long I watched him, moving from flower to flower and inspecting them with remarkable care, but I know I was reaching into my pocket to check the time when he finally spoke up.
“Roft’s done a great job on the garden.”
“Oh, yeah.” I’d shrugged it off, only really half-paying attention. That’s when I was ushered over to take a better look at each and every plant.
“Do you know how flowers like these survive in the winter, Sebastian?”
The anxiety of not knowing is an incredible thing. I’m sure I could feel my heart preparing to burst from my chest, fully prepared to be lashed for the crime of not being a skilled junior botanist. Eventually, reluctantly, I shook my head. That’s when Grandfather wrapped an arm around my shoulders, lowering me to get a closer look at the flowers I at least knew enough about to identify as hellebores. Grandfather’s smile was bright, unmoving. It always was, somehow. I envy that.
“In the winter, things…You guessed it, freeze! Meaning that the plants suddenly have no access to the water that keeps them alive. Sometimes, they even get so very cold that their cells rupture, killing them slowly.” It was the most morbid lesson in foliage I’d ever been given. Suddenly, I found myself enraptured. “Most flowers don’t survive through these grave conditions. But the strongest of these little ones do something crucial when they’re beaten down by the elements; they harden. They know that after facing enough scary winters, they’ll be strong enough to face even the strongest of blizzards.” That’s when he turned to look at me. “The human body is much like a flower. Sometimes it needs to be deprived, needs to be wounded, so it can grow stronger.”
The look on my face must’ve said it all, because suddenly, his smile faltered. But it didn’t drop. It never dropped.
“Sebastian, I’m worried about your father’s…Educational style.”
That’s when I was forced to take pause. Grandfather had never indicated that he knew before. It had always been unspoken, something that should be kept behind closed doors and never mentioned, lest the illusion of our ideal life be shattered. I played the fool. I’m good at that.
“What do you mean?”
And then, with more enthusiasm than I’d ever heard the request uttered, he said,
“Hand.”
It was reflex, almost to an eerie extent, the way I suddenly outstretched my arm and hitched up my sleeve. Grandfather studied the bruising, the cuts along my arm. It could’ve been seconds, it could’ve been minutes. I’m not sure, but it felt agonising.
“Your father acts out of anger.” His thumb traced along them, poking and prodding for what felt like no good reason. There was something almost mournful in his tone, his smile suddenly too sympathetic for comfort. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Sebastian. This is all my fault. I don’t know how he grew up so bitter.”
What was I supposed to say in the face of this? Nothing, evidently, because my silence had been suffocating. I’m not sure I’ll forget his next words any time soon.
“Your father was never quite right, even when he was younger. Always so bitter, so angry… You won’t grow up angry, will you, Sebastian?” He hadn’t waited for a response. There was something manic to it, the way he jumped from one topic to the next. “No. You have something your father lacks, you'll grin and bear it, take your discipline with dignity. Smile for me, Sebastian.”
It was an instruction; a weird one, but it was an order. I cracked my best smile; it’s not exactly one I share comfortably. It shows too many teeth. It’s just too much. Grandfather smiled in turn, clasping me by the shoulders and guiding me to my feet.
“There we go. Feels better, doesn’t it?”
It didn’t feel better. But as I looked into my grandfather’s eyes, once so full of life but now barely clinging onto it, the gaunt, hollowed out cheeks, and that incorrigible Cheshire grin that just kept holding on…How could I tell him his worldview was so wrong when he had so little time to express it? Maybe it’s not right, but all I could think to do was let an old man keep his delusions. And so, when I finally felt as if I could speak again, I replied,
“Yes, Grandfather. Much better.”
And that’s the last lesson he ever taught me. Or anyone, for all I know. The last words of wisdom imparted by a man I’m still not sure I understand. At first, I dismissed them as the delusional ramblings of a madman losing his faculties and clinging to the last shreds of his sanity, but as I think back on the legacy he left behind, I realise that maybe he lived every day of his life by the principle he preached to me that afternoon.
And in spite of what he may have said on the matter, that’s the saddest thing I can imagine.