Just.

I want to be able. To bake bread.
Bread that I can give my grandfather. Bread that my grandfather will like.
And I'm aiming to do that.
He and I share this love of bread and biscuits. It's something I have left. 

(sorry, personal post.)

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Just.


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My grandfather will die.
Soon.

Not impending soon, but, inescapable soon.

I mean. There's no terrible illness, no huge injury. There's no urgent disease soon to take him away.

It's just.
Age.

Old age. 
The one inevitable thing. No one can avoid it.

And for the past few years, the signs of old age - the perils, the symptoms, the pains, of old age, have been appearing in him.

From the lapse in memory, to losing his hearing, to falls and pains that take longer to heal from each time (never fully healing from).

I'm scared.
(I'm sad.)

I am just waiting - but the worst thing is - I don't want to think about how, maybe sometimes, he is also just waiting?

He stares out blankly so much now, when he sits in his chair. In the past, he'd fiddle with his tools, or at least, you could see that alertness in his eyes.

My grandfather is a quiet man.

I don't know much about him from himself - only what stories my parents and grandmother share.

But what I learnt from him was lessons of punctuality. Lessons of sharing common joys, liking the same kind of food. Learning that he was educated, as he helped me with my early homework. Hearing him speak English. Playing with his hair when white slowly took over everything.

Damit.

(I suddenly am not sure when the last time I heard him laugh was. Really laugh.)