/Hugged Him Harder

It was March 23rd, my grandfather was sitting in the sofa, with a king like posture, his legs crossed, staring at his phone that he was holding high with his right hand while his left handed rested on the leftside of his jawbone.

On the other sofa was my uncle, leaned forward toward the table, in his usual sitting posture.

I was in the kitchen with my mother, preparing the plates for dinner, there was a very awkward silence. And silences usually reminded me of death, his death. It's only the silent moments in which those memories creep inside your brain and all of a sudden you find yourself in a pond of melancholia.

Suddenly my grandmother broke the silence, by asking my uncle to get his diabetes tested next day in the in the morning, a gentle reminder. My grandma has always been like, showing extra care for those who didn't even deserved it.

So, yes he nodded and told her that he will get it done by 9AM. My father also had diabetes, I remember how I used to go with him to the hospital on Sundays for his checkup. I remember how small those moments were, yet so beautiful, sitting on the back seat of our anciently old bike which was still running better than some new vehicle. He knew it, how to take care of things that bring hoy in your life, I didn't.

So there is a very interesting thing about that diabetes thing, I used to hug him from stomach and place my ear on his back to hear better the things he said to me, or the songs he used to sing. His voice had some kind of sadness in it, sadness that speaks of the helplessness of a middle class in our country.

As I grew older I stopped doing that, hugging him and listening to his voice through his heavy back. My hands started to hold the rear handle of the bike and never him. But if I knew he would be dead, I would have been hugged him harder, listened to him better and talked to him more politely.

That regret hasn’t moved an inch in the last 5 years, it’s still there, rigidly positioned, as it was the day he died.

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