Very Nearly

My grandfather always said that "almost" was the saddest word in the English language. He almost made it to college. His brother almost made parole. His wife almost survived ovarian cancer. His daughter almost loved him back. There was a somberness about him, one that haunted the cheekbones on his face and the bags under his eyes. The events that life hurled at my grandfather wore tighter and heavier on him, erasing every empathetic and compassionate cell in his heart.

My mother hardly allowed me to see my grandfather. He was only invited to birthdays and graduations of which my parents conspicuously observed. As a girl, I never understood why my mother treated my grandfather with such contempt.

"He's lost," my mother would flatly state every time I asked her why I couldn't see him.

However, as I grew I realized my grandfather wasn't the one who was lost. It was my mother who was lost. The death of my grandmother had stifled the relationship between my mother and grandfather, and the consequences of that tearing seeped into my mother and I's relationship. Bitterness budded in the pit of my stomach, producing vines that pierced through my heart and entangled my mind. I couldn't forgive her; I wouldn't forgive her. 

Almost rang through my head like a symphony, suffocating my hope and drowning my expectations. Freedom, a breath, was nowhere to be found. Until one day, my face scrunched against the unvacuumed rug in the bathroom, it came to me. My mother and grandfather's relationship was not broken because they didn't love each other anymore. It was because they loved so deeply.

Because of this, I truly believed that my grandfather had gotten it all wrong. "Almost" was not the saddest word in the English language; it was the happiest. He was so focused on the "not quite" aspect of the word that he forgot about the "very nearly." Very nearly he would watch his grandson graduate from Harvard. Very nearly he would bring his brother home from prison. Very nearly he would unite with his wife in heaven. Very nearly would his daughter come back to him and reciprocate his love for her. There was hope for my mother, hope for my grandfather. Their love for my grandmother was so strong that it pushed them in different directions rather than uniting them together.

My life will look different. So many of my friends look at love through the "not quite" lens. Their girlfriend is not quite pretty enough. Their father is not quite respectful enough. Their best friend is not quite loyal enough. Why must we measure love based upon what it might not give us? Why must we measure love at all? Love is to be action-filled, anticipatory, hardworking. It turns all the "not quites" about another into the "very nearlies." Very nearly will I see my grandfather again. Very nearly will I forgive my mother. Very near will I find happiness. Very nearly will I love again.