When I was younger, he visited often; I saw him often. But now health conditions keep him on the other side of the world, where he needs to get dialysis three times a week. His dialysis keeps him alive, but it also keeps him from us. Now, I only see him once a year.
A taxi inevitably draws nearer and nearer then slows to a stop. The taxi driver gets out and my dad helps him pile the luggage into the trunk while I stand there awkwardly, a stone stuck in my throat. The last suitcase is hauled in and I hug him first, then my dad. The taxi driver slams the trunk door shut and we clamber inside. I stare out the window at him, believing if my eyes leave him for a single instant, he would disappear and be gone forever. I put on a smile and force back the welling in my eyes. Goodbyes and see you next years are said. Then it all goes too fast and there’s not enough time and how I wish I had more time but now the taxi is pulling out and I crane my neck and twist around in a sudden panic—a seize of anxiety and helplessness has its cold grip on me—and I whip around trying to keep my glimpse of him, but the taxi is turning out of his retirement home and now we’ve turned the corner and my grandpa is gone and I’m left wondering if that’s the last time I’ll see him.
The bitter taste of resigned desperation coats my mouth.
I shift to face my window, tears trickling down my cheek and I hope to God that my dad doesn’t see my pathetic, tear-streaked face in the reflection.
The taxi driver turns on his playlist and we listen to pop songs in silence.
“This is a good one,” my dad says.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “It’s Imagine Dragons.”
We ride on without another word. I stare emptily at the window and breathe in with my mouth; inhaling through my nose would make the sniffling sound, breaking the silence and giving me away. Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Twenty. I’m still staring at the blur of nothingness outside. Thirty. I hear something.
I slowly turn my head so I’m facing the back of the driver’s seat. I narrow my eyes, trying to see my dad’s face without him seeing mine. He’s wiping his nose. That’s when it hits me, when I know. I don’t need to look up to know that he’s crying. I turn my head back at the window. I dare not to move because then surely my dad won’t look at me and surely he hasn’t looked at me and surely he doesn’t see my stupid tears drip drip drip down my chin and onto my lap and surely, surely–
I feel a light sensation brushing my arm and I instinctively look down—a napkin. An offering from my dad. A silent acknowledgement. It is a mutual understanding that I do not want this to be the last time and neither does he. In this moment, we both share the overwhelming, striking fear of the inevitable; I don’t want to lose my grandpa and he doesn’t want to lose his dad.
I take the tissue and I rub my dripping nose, eyes still trained at the passing buildings outside.
The dam that I tried so hard to keep steady cracks and bursts under the pressure of my grandpa, of my fear, of the tissue, of my dad, and the tears cascade freely and I hiccup uncontrollably. The taxi driver is most definitely looking in the rearview mirror to see the raggedy, miserable faces of a father and daughter now. Song after song fills in the silence until finally, the taxi stops in front of our terminal. My dad and I clamber out, and my dad helps the taxi driver take out our luggage. My dad presses money into the driver’s hand and we all say our thank yous. I stuff the tissue in my pocket and we head into the airport, where an airplane waits to take us back to the other side of the world.
Caroline is currently a high school junior. She loves to read and is easily immersed into books of all genres, especially those with dystopian themes. In addition to reading, she plays soccer, engages with her school’s robotics team, and writes all sorts of literary genres for fun. This is her first time participating in a writing contest and is excited to submit more in the future. She hopes to feed her passion by continuing to study English in college.
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