The Wings Of A Caged Bird | First Draft

chapter 42: doubts of a young heart

11th August, 2019

When I open the door to the cabin, I hear soft music floating from inside.

Grandpa's eyes flick open slowly, his gaze landing on me. It seems as if it takes him a while to process who his visitor is. But when he does, a small smile spreads on his thin lips. He slightly raises his hand, which was lying beside him on the bed, and gestures me in. I turn my head back to July, who tells me to go ahead.

"This should be a proper conversation between the two of you," he says.

So I enter and close the blue hospital door behind me, catching a glimpse of July's face from the small, circular window on it before he goes away. There is a chair beside the bed. I walk over to it and sit down, grandpa's eyes following me the whole time.

The man in front of me is nearly unrecognizable from the man he used to be only four days ago. For one, he has become bonier, the veins on his wrinkled hands visible, the wrinkles on his forehead deeper and more profound.

"I've been waiting for you," he says in a strained voice, hinting exhaustion but not weakness. "I was wondering . . . why my fellow lover of literature hasn't come to meet me yet."

"I'm really sorry, grandpa," I reply, folding my hands on my lap. "It's a family crisis, I've been finding it difficult to figure out where I should insert myself, without overdoing it . . ."

"You think too much, my dear." He smiles. "But perhaps, that's your charm. I do understand. It is easier to join someone in their joy, than in their calamity."

I slowly nod.

Grandpa tries to prop himself up on his elbows. I fix the bright white pillow and help him settle in a half-lying position. I try to be as gentle as I can, afraid I will break him, though I myself don't have that much physical strength. It would certainly be more than someone who is 50 years older than me. Once again, I am overcome with the fear that the older I grow, the more helpless I will become. And if I have no one beside me, I would die alone in a hospital bed identical to this one.

Grandpa reaches for the radio on the bedside table and turns a button to reduce the volume of the song. I don't recognize the song, but I do recognize the radio. It's the same small, grayish brown one that sat in the living room of Tiara's cabin. No one has entered that living room since grandpa has come here.

He lets out a sigh and says, "Oh Cedar, I cannot share this with my children. But I know for sure that they are struggling to pay for every little thing here. A guilt too heavy to carry. It makes me wish it would just end."

The sentence takes me aback. Grandpa is talking quite differently than he usually does. Is this the same man? I discover a massive contrast between the thoughts of a healthy man living with simple happiness, and that of someone who kissed the door of death and managed to turn around. Is this how Dawn was like, in those final days?

Just as the word 'Dawn' bubbles up in my mind, a small pain bursts in my temple. My vision goes hazy for a split second, and a cloud of confusion spreads within me. It's like the feeling of forgetting something important but being unable to grasp what that is. This is not the first time since I woke up today that I felt like this. Strange.

"Cedar? Did you zone out like my granddaughter?" He laugns.

I snap out and recall what he said earlier. Quickly, I hold grandpa's hand with both of mine. "Please don't say that, grandpa. I have lost someone very dear to me precisely because he shared the same sentiment. Please. The regret of not being able to do everything within your power to save someone you love is incomparable."