Grandpa Didn't Cry

Come, sit, quiet is needed. The fire is very low because the shadows demand it. They want to come in too. The shadows, in case I haven't explained, are the thoughts and spirits of those that have passed. I feel close to them right now, and they seem real to me. They won't hurt you, trust me, they're mine and I wish no ill to anyone, but they will talk to you, and perhaps that might be scary. Right now they're talking to me about a promise I made and I'd like to share with you how it was made. It's ok, shhh, sit down I'll tell them.

When Desert Storm (Operation Friction to us Canadians) started, I was 15. There was a certain level of uncertainty in the air as to how the actual invasion may fare. Iraq was very much ready for a fight, and the US hadn't shown their hand. As we know it went quickly, but for some who had gone through previous wars felt it could have gone much differently.

I've told you of my Grandfather, a burly man who lived through World War Two minus a lower leg and his twin. He occasionally told me about the boat ride he saw his twin killed on. Rambling details when he was a little in his cups. I couldn't share with you the exact details, but to say I saw the pain and heard the terror he must have felt as a young man would be true. He was profoundly affected by that experience and I doubt he felt it was in a good way.

When the war was finally underway, my grandparents came to visit. It was on all the news and we all had an intense front row view of modern warfare. My grandfather asked for a cup of coffee, and sat down in the dining room. Grandma told me I should go sit with him so I did. He seemed shaken, and pale. He face, usually a hard stern mask, held a look of apprehension. His cheeks were wet.

We sat in silence for a number of minutes, he held his coffee cup and stared at it, perhaps hoping it would tell him how to start. I'm not sure. I was frightened, because my grandfather didn't cry.

"I'm not cryin'." He could see it, my own confusion. "Shrapnel in my eye. Pains me sometimes." He gripped that cup again and I swear it disappeared within those huge hand. Massive and powerful, they symbolized something scary but sometimes something safe. "Like my leg. Stupid wooden one hurts most times." He coughed, and pulled out his cigarettes, and I passed the ashtray closer. Why were his cheeks still wet?

"You know I don't talk about the war at all." He inhaled a long drag, and let it move from his nose. The smoke came out in shaky jumbles; twisted, twirling, tumbling clouds that didn't seem right. I watched and stayed silent. "I don't like it, no one should have to do that. I know I had to, but no one should."

I was stunned to hear this. I was young, I thought anyone who fought in a war thought it was the right thing to do. His cheeks were still wet, why were they still wet?!

"You're pretty young, don't get me wrong, you won't go, or shouldn't. Maybe not yet." His voice shook, I didn't know what to do, his cheeks were still wet. He brushed at them, "Ain't tears, just the shrapnel."

One of those massive hands reached slowly, oh so slowly, and gripped my wrist. The grip was iron and I could feel how strong he was, how strong he felt. My body stopped twitching, moving, perhaps even stopped breathing. I stared into his eyes. "You won't go. You promise me." His cheeks were still wet.

As if on cue from his eyes, I answered, "I promise granpa, I won't go." He nodded, and let go. The cup of coffee disappeared again inside those hands, but I was still held.

"You don't want to ever see that. Going to war ..." his words trailed, and he shook his head, and I saw something splash to the table out of the corner of my eye. He wiped again, muttered something about shrapnel and moved to stand. I sat there, and watched as he seemed to move upward like a monolith, perhaps a living cenotaph. "You promise me you won't go." I just nodded. "Good." He left the coffee, his smoke, and the room.

I sat for a bit, I was stunned, and then I went downstairs, watched the war, but it was just sliding past.

My grandfather never cried, he couldn't. Those things were stolen from him due to his own sacrifice. He gave them up and so for you granpa, I'll cry. I cry for all those from the first times of war who gave what they could so others didn't have to. And I promised to him I wouldn't, so I won't. But I'll cry.

I'll cry for you grandpa, shhh, it's ok, I love you and I miss you. Thank you, for everything.