Become a Fan
Mistakes, mistakes, they raise the stakes.
By Dario Cvorak
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Rated "G" by the Author.
A short anecdote about my grandfather and grandmother.
Adem Čvorak is his name, no, was his name, but I like to call him the chicken shit, the family deserter, the childhood thief, the deranged old man, although at times I'm forced to use adequate terminology and call him grandpa.
You see, he left my dad and his sister to live a life of poverty, alone with grandma, but before he left he made sure that all the future memories of their childhood would be bad ones, infected with hate and stitched togheter with the severing feeling of abandonment as the thread.
My family always blamed him for being a man-whore and a gutless fool, nowadays we pay him a visit once each year, he's after all old and near the brink of death, even though he lacked the trait of humanity it would be self-demeaning for me and my family to consciously punish him with the thousand year old method of eye for an eye, in the end; kindness towards those that have outraged you can have a far greater effect than any other means of revenge.
Even though my grandpa truly loves me, as I'm the firstborn man of my entire family, I'll never forgive him for the malevolent acts he's put my true family, my genuine relatives and first and foremost my dear old granny, through.
Two years ago when we visited him and his current wife, I couldn't restrain myself, I had to embark upon the staircase that leads to the second floor, which is lawfully owned by my grandmother even though she probably won't set her foot there ever again, ironically the only way would be to pass over my grandpa's dead body.
This sudden urge to explore this restricted area drove my feet further and further along the creaky staircase, and when I passed through the door, leading into the four-roomed flat, it was as if I could recall all the memories associated with each and every cobweb entangled piece of furniture.
Why am I telling you this? Well you see, as much as it pains me, when I saw my grandmothers flat, exactly the same as it had been left by her, frozen in time, I couldn't withhold my anger.
I imagined all those days her gentle hands had crafted parts of this house, the days of hard labour and drudgery when my own dad had mustered the strength to assist with the construction of the house, I saw the sweat and the tears, I felt the happiness of living in what you've created yourself, and I got shot down by the agony of having it all unrighteously taken away.
My revenge acted out in a civilized manner, I opened the creaky tallboy where my grandmother's books were lying still, covered in spider's web, it didn't matter that my grandfather would get upset, I began skimming through the books, evaluating what I could steal, or to be frank, retrieve what rightfully wasn't my grandpa's.
I picked out a couple of books, as I opened the first page of one of them I saw my grandma's handwriting, my teeth began to shake unknowingly and I embodied the sorrow of the war that my family had fled from, tears began to crowd my eyes and I had to sit down in the old armchair, otherwise I'd have fallen hopelessly to the floor.
To this day I glance at my own bookshelf, where I've put the three stolen books, and I calmly observe them, I smile and think of the loving old lady;
"Don't worry grandma, your books are safe with me now."
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