Loss- by Think Tank correspondant David Franks

It was autumn, and the wind swam through the trees, rustling the leaves’ golden pageantry into a chorus of whispers, telling their secrets before dying. There was an old tree on the lawn before the old, looming house, between bow of the gravel drive and the forest’s edge. It was a grandfather tree, an ancient pine towering amidst a sea of broadleaves, grown sickly and rotten with the passage of years, its old pride as the lone sight of green in winter’s heart slowly dwindling as its branches grew brown and dropped their needles, forgot their old suppleness, and one by one were broken by wind and the weight of snow.
Horace gazed out from his chair on the house’s porch, and thought about the tree, how it had been strong and verdant in his youth, how its decay had struck him when he had returned from his long absence to the home where he had been raised, amidst the comforting closeness of the wooded hills and hollows, away from cities and flat country. He had returned, not so long ago, to care for the grandfather who had raised him, now that he had entered the autumn years.
He looked across the porch at his grandfather now, dozing in a cushioned rocking chair, a shaggy dog snoring contentedly at his feet. It seemed that there was less of him these days, and indeed his face had grown gaunt and pale, his skin wrinkled were his once-firm muscles - hardened by a lifetime’s work - had receded, leaving his limbs narrow and stick-like with only the soft remnants of muscle separating brittle bones from pale skin.
He was so different from the man Horace remembered from his childhood, who had carried him in strong arms, always sporting a contented, knowing grin, always joking and humming and laughing. He had been such a joyful, lighthearted parent, sometimes pausing mid-action to chuckle at some private joke, or breaking out into song for a half a verse, before catching himself.
But now it seemed his spindly frame was weighted down by melancholy, a deep sadness which he bore with a discomforting familiarity. There had been times, when Horace was still a boy, where his grandfather had shed his joyfulness, rare guarded moments when a shadow passed over his face, his eyes darkened, his grin vanished, and the merry clamor which he carried with him everywhere was silenced. A quiet pause, as if remembering some old sorrow, some burden from a time before Horace could recall.
These days that shadow seemed to hang over him more and more, for the old man frequently snapped at Horace, making cruel remarks and issuing loud demands, or spent long hours blankly staring, lost in some memory. It was rare for him to smile and he no longer laughed. Horace had come to suspect that old man was weeping in his private moments. It was as if a lifetime’s sorrows, long delayed, had come to trouble him in his old age.
Horace had questioned his grandfather about his changed mood but the old man had always deflected the questions with a curt “It’s nothing” or, if he was in a better mood, “just old memories, Horace”. His grandfather had always been a private man, for all his open cheer, and Horace had grown up respecting that privacy, and so did not press the matter.
Dusk began to fall, and fingers of night began to spread through the forest. Horace rose from his chair and stirred his grandfather. “Grandpa?” The old man looked up at his grandson from under heavy eyelids. “I’m going to make dinner now; I’ll come get you when it’s ready.” Then Horace placed a quick kiss on his grandfather’s forehead and did just that.

They ate silently; Horace glancing at his grandfather between bites, eating distractedly, while the old man was totally focused on his food, eating slowly, carefully, and thoroughly. This had been the pattern of their meals together since Horace returned, though in Horace’s childhood the old man was always asking Horace about his something or another: his schoolwork, his friends, what he had done that day, things of that nature. Horace missed that dinner conversation, missed the daily reminder that someone cared for him.
After they had finished eating, Horace cleared the dishes (he would wash them after his grandfather was in bed), reminded him to take his pills, and helped the old man up the stairs. They proceeded cautiously, for the stairs had become increasing difficult for his grandfather to traverse, with Horace going before him, holding his grandfather’s hand, lifting him a little bit with each step, alternating his gaze between the stairs and his grandfather’s face.
On the fifth step, he heard a gurgling noise behind him. He turned, asking “Grandpa?” and saw the old man’s face go slack, and slowly, - so slowly it seemed – he saw his grandfather’s left leg collapse, saw his left hand fly from the handrail, felt his grandfather’s bony fingers slide from his hand, saw him fall down to the floor, striking it with an ominous, jarring crack! and saw the only face he could remember ever smiling on him with unconditional love and boundless affection, distort with pain, before its eyes closed.
Now Horace flew, quickly, quickly; down the stairs to check his grandfather’s pulse, then to telephone to call an ambulance. Minutes dragged by with heavy shackles of worry before Horace heard the sirens and rushed outside. He hustled the paramedics to his grandfather; they lifted him onto a stretcher and into the ambulance, then sped off, sirens wailing.

Tense hours passed before Horace received news from the doctors. His grandfather had suffered a stroke and broken his hip in the fall. He would need surgery, and he would need to stay in the hospital for several weeks before they could release him to Horace’s care. Horace signed off on the paperwork, still half in shock over what happened. And when the shock faded, there would only remain the weight, the weight of responsibility which would hang over him so long his grandfather breathed.

That weight was still with him two and a half months later, as he sat in a comfortable reading chair in his grandfather’s bedroom, opposite the old man’s withered, sleeping figure. Watching over him, protecting him, comforting him when his secret sorrows (yes, even now Horace did not pry, he loved the old man far too much for that) came to him and threatened to overwhelm all thought and desire, to seize and occupy the whole of his mind in their vengeful, icy grip, and to torment him in his last days.
Horace could sense his grandfather’s end drawing near, could see it in the way he moved, the way he breathed, the way he spoke, his manner in all actions. Slow. Deliberate. Purposeful. It seemed as if he was very tired and only remaining awake by sheer force of will to finish some vital task before its deadline.
Ever since the night of the stroke the old man had faded; his mind was always elsewhere and every day he seemed to withdraw further into himself, into the past, into the familiar mists of memory. And as those bonds which held his mind and body together loosened, and his grip on reality weakened, Horace saw, with horrible clarity, all the ways in which his grandfather had been diminished.
Just then, the old man stirred. “Horace”, he croaked weakly, “come here”. Horace crossed the room and bent over to look his grandfather in the eye, his mouth smiling comfortingly while his eyes radiated anxiety. “Yes, grandpa”, he murmured. The old man looked at him with heavy, concerned eyes, whose gaze had never been so sharp or focused.
“Tell me you love me.”
“I love you, grandpa.”
“Do you forgive me?”
“For what?”
“For secrets, for not being there, for going away.”
“I forgive you for everything, grandpa.”
“Good.”, he said, then his eyes went wide and he stared at the room for a moment before saying, “I see them.”
“Who?”
“They’re all here, smiling. Your mother, your grandmother, Charles, your uncle Richard, and many more you don’t know, all my old friends.” Throughout all this his voice had seemed to grow weaker and fainter. He half-smiled, took a deep breath, and died.