Void inside me

My day has been pretty mundane these past few days. I'm taking some time off with my family in a small town, staying with my grandparents. They're both in their nineties now. I thought spending more time at home would make me feel better, but instead I'm noticing how much time has taken its toll on them. Even when they're awake, it's as if they're still sleeping. They sleep through most of the day, wake up to eat, then just stare into space mindlessly.

I first noticed this last Christmas. I was so sad. Grandpa had just had a stroke, so he can barely talk. Grandma was furious with the nanny we'd hired to take care of him.

But this year feels better—or rather, I've changed my perspective. I've noticed that occasionally Grandpa tries to start conversations with me, even if it's just a random question like: "Do you remember how you got your nickname?" My nickname is "Egg" (direct translation to English). "I called you that because you're my treasure egg," he said, then fell silent again.

It's heartwarming, yet sad, I guess. But I'm grateful to be able to cherish these little moments with them. 

I don't know what death really looks like, and I know I'm starting to lose them, piece by piece. I hold on tight—but not too tight—to my fond memories of them. Because sand in a clenched fist always slips away to nothing. I'm not afraid of death, but I'm terrified of the void they'll leave behind.

I don't wish them a long long life, but a peaceful end.