Once
a year, around this time, when I’m alone on a dark night. Sitting at home
watching a dark night sail past my window. I focus on the lights, decorations,
and the presents that surround my tree. When I’m thinking back over the year
and remember the things I’ve done and people in my life. I make large mug of
hot chocolate, sit under a blanket on my comfy couch and I remember a boy.
A
young man really. His story is one told to me as a way of warning. I tell it
now to you.
The
young man in question had a Grandmother who he rarely spoke to. On his birthday
she would call and they would speak for a small amount of time; minutes at
best. At the holidays when they would find themselves in each other’s company
they would exchange pleasantries. Other than that, they rarely spoke.
For
the young man it was never his intention to not speak with his Grandmother. He
loved her dearly, and hoped she knew that. On occasion he would think of
calling her and talking. In the end he never did. Years past them both by and
they rarely spoke.
One
day, when he was gathered with friends and family, someone asked him if he ever
called, visited, or spoke to her at a family functions. The young man responded
that he had considered it but he never did. When asked why he only replied, “I
would, but I don’t know what we would talk about.”
He
left the room after that and went to sit elsewhere in the house. After he had
gone, one of his family spoke, “I once asked her the same question,” they said.
“She gave the exact same answer.”
One
year the young man brought a girl with him to Christmas. His Grandmother on
meeting the girl spoke with the young man. A few days after Christmas, she called
him again and asked how the young lady had been doing. After he answered the
two spoke for nearly three hours. They spoke of his school, her retirement,
health, books, and much more.
The
relationship ended, as young relationships often do. The young man and his
Grandmother rarely spoke. They returned to their old pattern. The young man
would occasionally think of the phone and his Grandmother, but he never called
her.
Sometime
after that the Grandmother went away, Grandmother’s often do. The young man had
been unable to talk to her. It was after this one cold Christmas season that he
thought back on the time when he had a girlfriend and what it had meant to talk
to his grandmother about her. The things they talked about then, when they
could relate to one another.
He
wondered why it had taken the existence of another person to let him talk to
his Grandmother about things such as school, retirement, and books.
He
mourned her. He mourned the relationship he might have had if he had simply put
aside the idea that they had nothing to talk about and simply call her to ask
what she’d had for lunch and see where the conversation went.
I
remember this story to remind me of the relationships in my life so that I will
try and make a better effort to connect to the ones I love. I know the young
man in the story has lost something and I hope one day that he will be okay
with what he lost. Of course, I may never know if he did. In truth I’m not sure
I want to. Learning the truth may reveal a disappointment. It may not.
Until
I figure it out, I’ll sit here, wrapped in my blanket, with my large mug of hot
chocolate, and I shall remember them and hope it makes me a better man.
Thank
you Dorothy, you are missed.
end
Hot Chocolate
No comments:
Post a Comment