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Remembering

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This is a polaroid of me and my grandfather that stands against my table lamp. I took a closer look at it tonight and realised how little I knew of him, yet how close I felt. It seems almost a paradox of some kind, but seeing myself in his arms my heart recognises that intimate bond that is forged when love (though unspoken) exists.
I don't know much about my grandfather first-hand. He fell really ill when I was still pretty much a kid, and I was too caught up in my teenage metamorphosis to fully appreciate him then. I regret it now. I remember holding his arm as he lay bedridden. The very same arm that held me in that picture. I remember not knowing what to say to him, not knowing what to feel. There were times when I just forgot he lay in the guestroom of my house for he was a silent member, unmoving and unstirring. I wish I had cherished those moments more, for I know I could have learnt so much from just looking into his eyes. Even now as I'm typing this out my eyes cannot help but start to brim – I had been such a terrible grandson. There are so many if-only's. The one thing I know was that he held me in his arms, and that I felt safe there.
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