memories, I suppose. Today felt like the first day of a lifetime of memories featuring Tristan, not the only day.
Maybe I was wrong. Dad always used to say that people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Maybe Tristan was a reason, not a lifetime. Maybe this sketch was the purpose of our meeting. Dissatisfaction needles me at the thought.
It’s then I remember that he wrote something on the back of the sketch. Turning it over, I see that he’s written in his bold masculine handwriting, “It always comes back to T.I.M.E.” and nothing else.
I stare at it for the longest while, trying to decipher whether any hidden meaning exists. I know on the surface it’s referring to our conversation earlier, but a part of me thinks there’s a deeper meaning to it that I’m failing to comprehend.
Or maybe I just want to read more into it than there is. Maybe I want his words to imply something to validate the connection I felt. Either way, he isn’t here to explain it to me, and he might never be again, so it’s pointless to try to work out the riddle that is Tristan.
The treehouse has a single bed in the corner, and a quick nap is sounding good to me right now. Swinging my legs inside, I stand up and walk over to the bed, placing the treasured sketch on the desk nearby with my jacket on top so that it doesn’t blow away with the wind.
Lying down on the bed in the sky, I close my eyes as images of the day flit through my mind like the flashes of a camera. My last thought as I fall asleep is of a talented boy with blue eyes and a dimpled smile who for a brief moment felt like my forever.
MY FEET HIT the ground as I jump out of my truck and shut the door with an echoing thud. Taking a moment to steady myself, I breathe in the fresh alpine air. These moments are never long enough, but I relish them. More than that, I need them to be able to cope with what is facing me inside that double-story log cabin.
Guilt prickles for needing some time away from my grandfather every now and then. Enjoying that time makes me feel even worse. More than I need time, he needs me . Now, more than ever. But sometimes I threaten to sink into the soil under the burden and pressure.
I don’t bother questioning whether I’m strong enough. I am because I have to be. It’s as simple as that. At the direction of my thoughts, I laugh without humor. Simple. When has anything, ever, been simple?
The drapes twitch as a familiar face peeks out to investigate the sound. Sighing, I make my way inside as stray stones crunch beneath my shoes. Freya, my grandfather’s nurse, beams as I walk into the cabin, locking the door behind me.
Freya is a class act. She’s in her thirties and has a family of her own, but she comes every day for a few hours to look after my grandfather. Her presence is especially helpful on days like today when I need to go out and leave him behind for his own good.
Most of the time though, only my grandfather and I are here. Just the two of us. Although he’s physically present, my real grandfather mentally disappeared several years ago, so I’m well-acquainted with loneliness.
I used to be his sole caregiver; but after he took a turn for the terrible, I was forced to use some of the inheritance I received from my parents to hire help. Now I’m just the primary caregiver. Taking the demotion from sole to primary giver and admitting defeat was hard.
He’s done so much for me. He looked after, cared for, and supported me by himself when I had no one else and I failed him by not being able to do the same. ‘ The weight of the world cannot possibly be carried on two shoulders ,’ Freya always tells me. ‘You’re helping him by realizing the areas where you’re no longer helpful. Strength in numbers.’
On bad days, which are becoming many, I cling to her words like a life raft in a storm. And at the moment, the skies are stormy indeed. I can’t remember the last time the sun
Maybe I was wrong. Dad always used to say that people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Maybe Tristan was a reason, not a lifetime. Maybe this sketch was the purpose of our meeting. Dissatisfaction needles me at the thought.
It’s then I remember that he wrote something on the back of the sketch. Turning it over, I see that he’s written in his bold masculine handwriting, “It always comes back to T.I.M.E.” and nothing else.
I stare at it for the longest while, trying to decipher whether any hidden meaning exists. I know on the surface it’s referring to our conversation earlier, but a part of me thinks there’s a deeper meaning to it that I’m failing to comprehend.
Or maybe I just want to read more into it than there is. Maybe I want his words to imply something to validate the connection I felt. Either way, he isn’t here to explain it to me, and he might never be again, so it’s pointless to try to work out the riddle that is Tristan.
The treehouse has a single bed in the corner, and a quick nap is sounding good to me right now. Swinging my legs inside, I stand up and walk over to the bed, placing the treasured sketch on the desk nearby with my jacket on top so that it doesn’t blow away with the wind.
Lying down on the bed in the sky, I close my eyes as images of the day flit through my mind like the flashes of a camera. My last thought as I fall asleep is of a talented boy with blue eyes and a dimpled smile who for a brief moment felt like my forever.
MY FEET HIT the ground as I jump out of my truck and shut the door with an echoing thud. Taking a moment to steady myself, I breathe in the fresh alpine air. These moments are never long enough, but I relish them. More than that, I need them to be able to cope with what is facing me inside that double-story log cabin.
Guilt prickles for needing some time away from my grandfather every now and then. Enjoying that time makes me feel even worse. More than I need time, he needs me . Now, more than ever. But sometimes I threaten to sink into the soil under the burden and pressure.
I don’t bother questioning whether I’m strong enough. I am because I have to be. It’s as simple as that. At the direction of my thoughts, I laugh without humor. Simple. When has anything, ever, been simple?
The drapes twitch as a familiar face peeks out to investigate the sound. Sighing, I make my way inside as stray stones crunch beneath my shoes. Freya, my grandfather’s nurse, beams as I walk into the cabin, locking the door behind me.
Freya is a class act. She’s in her thirties and has a family of her own, but she comes every day for a few hours to look after my grandfather. Her presence is especially helpful on days like today when I need to go out and leave him behind for his own good.
Most of the time though, only my grandfather and I are here. Just the two of us. Although he’s physically present, my real grandfather mentally disappeared several years ago, so I’m well-acquainted with loneliness.
I used to be his sole caregiver; but after he took a turn for the terrible, I was forced to use some of the inheritance I received from my parents to hire help. Now I’m just the primary caregiver. Taking the demotion from sole to primary giver and admitting defeat was hard.
He’s done so much for me. He looked after, cared for, and supported me by himself when I had no one else and I failed him by not being able to do the same. ‘ The weight of the world cannot possibly be carried on two shoulders ,’ Freya always tells me. ‘You’re helping him by realizing the areas where you’re no longer helpful. Strength in numbers.’
On bad days, which are becoming many, I cling to her words like a life raft in a storm. And at the moment, the skies are stormy indeed. I can’t remember the last time the sun
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