Family matters

It's as though I've reached the cusp of this long dark slog, nearing what seemed to be an airy, bright time. But an ominous dark is spreading throughout, grey and laden with tears.

My grandfather has had a stroke. He lives on the other side of the ocean, overseas and over land. He lives yet. He has taken his numerous sets of pills many times daily for many years now, it's hardly a shock that something more serious has happened. His body is old, and worn out with working long, hard hard hours; some for others under force, others for his family. Life as a labourer takes its toll. Life as a persecuted man, however young and strong he was, has taken its toll. My grandfather is a large man. His body is hard, even where roundness has added to his bulk. His legs carry him still, but every step he takes is so painful he winces. It's been like this for years, but slowly the decline is reaching new lows.

His daughters are there, with each their own burdens to carry, each bringing a bit of misery and a lot of love. They congregate as his broad frame feels frail, distraught, heavy.

And I am far away, finally beginning to realise the importance of roots, the depth of lives lived, and the impact of our history on our lives. And there is nothing I can do.