So today I took my grandfather to my grandmother(Madge)'s grave. It was awkward, in a way, because I'm not good at talking to any of my family, at all. About anything meaningful, that is. But it was still a nice thing to do. He was obviously a bit saddened by it, but he talked about his grave (adjacent to hers, of course) in a somewhat jovial manner. We didn't really say much, but I was glad that I went anyway.
What shook me when I looked down were the dates. Madge Harmon February 1927 to October 1977. She was the same age my mother is right now when she died of lung cancer. Not only that, but that means my grandfather has lived without her for 28 years. For about a few of those years my mother and father lived with him, but, for the most part, he's lived alone. To be married 30 years and then to be thrust into another 30 of relative solitude... it's amazing. My grandfather isn't bitter or cranky or anything; in fact, he's one of the most generous nice guys I know. And I as stood there, looking at those years and "doing the math" I wondered how he could do it.
I guess, in a way, it's telling of his generation. They lived through the Depression, WWII, Vietnam, etc. They fought for something. They worked to survive. I don't know, maybe they've just had enough hardships to appreciate what they've got now. Or maybe I don't.
Frankly, I'm afraid of old age. I've not even been an adult for a full year, and I'm already afraid of being old and lonely. I live such an unhealthy lifestyle and I think, "Someday, this is going to come back and make your life hell." But I don't mind. I want to work for years and years and years, and then a week after I retire (or maybe after I write 80 to complete the trilogy), I want to die.
Ah well. I should ask my grandfather how he does it. But, for some reason, I can't. It's a family thing. Probably applies to you too.
Bleh. A boy of 18 should not be thinking like this.
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