Thank You
When i was fourteen my grandfather died completely out of the blue. It shocked me to my foundations. This was the one person who kept me going and made me feel safe within my painfully destructive family home. He more or less raised me and supported me through all my decisions. Even though i can't have made any huge life changing decisions at that age i still feel as if he did his best for me in every situation.

He died and i felt incredibly alone. I was angry, broken and afraid. My relationship with my mother was violent and crippling. I had no support and my friends found me difficult to deal with. They didn't really know what was going on behind closed doors at home so i can't blame them for anything.

I stopped going to school and just spent time sitting around town reading, drinking and thinking about what i should do. Making more and more a mess of things.

One day i was sat on a bench in the middle of the battered shopping precint. I don't remember what was on my mind or what i was supposed to be doing that day. I heard the jangling of coins and keys behind me. Something my Grandfather used to do absent mindly alot. I looked up to see an old man, probably of a similar age of my grandfather. He just smiled and said 'Don't worry, you will be okay. He still belives in you'.

I have no idea who that man was, or what urged him to say that to me. But Thank You. A part of me then thought somehow that was my Grandfather talking to me. Just giving me one final push and letting me know i wasn't alone even though he was gone.
( Threnody - Is a filthy, filthy bibliophile & you love it, Wed 8 Oct 2008, 2:03, 2 replies)

*sobs*

(ShitBitch, Wed 8 Oct 2008, 10:32, closed)

That sent wierd chills through my stomach as well as warm fuzziness..
On the day my Granny died, whilst walking up the hill after school, some random lady started up a conversation until we had to turn different ways. The talk was general and I'm pretty shy/rubbish at conversing with people, but I do remember her telling me not to worry before she crossed the road.

The only reason I remember it or attach any significance was that on turning the corner I saw my Dad coming down the hill to meet me. This was doubly strange.

Sure enough, he'd come down to tell me the bad news - we car-pooled with another family, so he wanted me to find out in private why we weren't going to the hospital as planned - Granny had died quite suddenly a few hours earlier. She'd had pancreatic Cancer and was given 6 months to live, but it still took everyone by surprise.

She'd told my Mum only the week before to "..Stop being such a worrying fusspot, go to work in Germany, I'll still be here when you get back and this is important for you." (The blunt no-nonsense essence of the statement as she didn't speak any English.. she was a unfazeably practical lady who voluntarily emmigrated twice to look after her grandkid, while the parents had to work.)

Mum never forgave herself for going, despite Gran practically ordering her to. And my argument of well, (a) she told you to, (b) neither of you were to know, and (c) she's probably angrier at your scene-making, cut no ice with her.

Me, despite everyones expectations of a blubbering wreck of a 13-year old, kept pretty quiet and dealt. I share her extreme pragmatism and practical approach to things, but partially due to the feeling she'd not completely left. Our house had been her little kingdom, and her personality was all over it. Odd quirks liek that stranger just strengthened that conviction - that she was there, but I just couldn't see her anymore.


I admit to being a sniffling 26 yr old right now.. just come back from 2 weeks at my parents new house, digging a vegetable patch for them last week made me think how much the old lady would have loved the place, pottering about clucking in Polish like a contented chicken. Growing things was her obsession, and cooking giant fabulous dinners :D

Heres to awesome grandparents, kind strangers, and comforting coincidences. *raises tv dinner*
(Hikikomori** watching cartoons on, Wed 8 Oct 2008, 19:44, closed)