“ If you need any help sweetheart, let me know okay?” He calls out to me as I start on dinner.

Tonight he’s light, chatty.

This is a grandad I’m surprised to meet, especially as over the past few decades he’s shown no interest in me.

“ Kids are to be seen and not heard…“ he would often say.

I remember his voice was incapable of being ignored. It boomed, like it grabbed you by the arms and shook you as a child.

He worked on farms since he would walk, wearing the same uniform of work-boots, a matching felt hat, a pocket-knife and a large dog at his feet. 

He never showed much interest in any of us kids, only really the ones he spent the most time with – the twins.

I remember he would even smile when he was around them, whereas with the rest of us, we were only acknowledged if we handed him a beer or did something wrong.

I always felt like I was swaying in the background of family events. Like it didn’t matter if I was there or not. 

No one really acknowledged me, only my mum. And after she left, I felt totally invisible. Even my dad seemed to forget I was there, too busy competing with his siblings for attention.

That’s not to say, we didn’t have fun at family events. The four of us youngest cousins would play Spotlight at night, racing around grandad and nanny’s treasured garden in pitch black- without a care in the world. 

As we grew older, his scary persona didn’t shift. And we all watched on in silent horror as one Christmas, grandad smashed a water pistol and ordered one of us to leave his house. Not one adult said anything- they were too scared. 

He mutes the tv- “ It’s amazing Hol, a lot of them don’t want it. So I’m buggered if I know.”

“ The feminists?” I asked. 

“ Yeah- them.” 

I laugh, as I know he’s only watching this for me. 

Before now, he use to change the channel immediately before quipping- “ Bunch of lesbians.”

Before long, he mutes it again…

“ Did you know Cockatoos mate for life? “

He asks, as we sit outside. We watch as the morning sun begins to dance across the grass.

“ No I did not.” 

“ Yeah, them and swans. I found one the other day, down the road that had it’s wing clipped. Took it back here and its partner come by to check in. But it died the next morning.“ 

“ That’s sad.”

“It was a bit. Look there’s crowie! Let me go grab some bread from inside. ” 

I watch as he greets this black creature with a chat, like they were best-friends. 

It’s funny,  how we are born one way and over time we morph into someone completely opposite- like a full metamorphic of self.

I remember growing up my dad was exactly like him. He would stick to a routine of coming home to a beer on the couch with the daily news blaring. He would barely acknowledge everyone at dinner and then he would go back to the news soon afterwards. 

I would try to talk to him when the news was on and he would put it on mute, only to watch it behind my head. And when I would react upset over being ignored,  he would erupt all and order me out of the room. 

But I didn’t care as it was the only time you could really talk to him. It was like his family was an inconvenience, just stuff in ‘his’ home.

 I remember it only really started to bother me once my mum had left and I had no one else to talk to. And there he was- still ignoring me. 

“ No wonder mum left, ” I would spit, before exiting with a door slam.

I would then race into my room, locking it shut behind me. I just needed him to notice me.

“ Are you lonely grandad?”

“ Um…. No- “ he turns from the large bird to glance at me.

“I’m pretty happy here. I would like to go out to dinner every now and again with someone but yeah. No I’m okay, darling. Don’t worry. ” 

He goes to settle back into his chair and we watch the birds as the wind chimes fill the silence and the sun continues to warm our feet. 

Grandad spent his life as half of something. The other was my Nanny, a small lady half his size who was attached to his hip since they were 19-years-old. 

Maybe being loved so unconditionally gave him confidence which aged into arrogance- idk. But I do know my grandad was the cardboard cut-out of a man. 

He worked on farms since he would walk, wearing the same uniform of work-boots, a wide-brimmed felt hat, a pocket-knife and a large dog at his feet.

Nanny wore bright blue eyes, short, manageable hair and unlike her counterpart, her mouth never closed.

She made up for her partner’s surly exterior by chatting non-stop to absolutely anyone and garnered affection through people’s stomaches.

She was the perfect 1950’s housewife that worshipped grandad like he was her religion. When I first learned about female servitude and oppression in school, her face popped straight into my head.

On the rare occasion grandad had a few, he was the closest to happy we ever saw.

My only positive memory of him was the odd time he would sing “Hello Dolly” to me in front of everyone. I felt so special, it would make my Christmas. 

I think I started really disliking him when I began noticing my dad defending Nanny after she got sick. 

She couldn’t move around as quickly as before or cook at the speed of light. She somehow shrunk in size, as her eyes turned a lighter shade of blue- almost white. Cancer was slowing her down as Parkinsons ate at her mind.

Nanny was never particularly that warm to me; I knew she liked me the least of all the grandchildren. She even told me as much one frustrated day when I was young but seeing Grandad berate her like that- in front of the whole family, made me hate him more.

Nanny died in her early 70’s and so for the first time in a long time, grandad was alone. 

I remember my dad softened before grandad did.

If the formula for changing women were words, then for men it was definitely pain.

Pain from their wives leaving, pain from being lonely, pain from seeing others in pain and for the first time, being forced to feel it themselves. 

I remember seeing my dad change; I heard it from the words he spoke when he was angry to the letters he would write me after arguments, apologising.

He would stuff them under my locked door and after a few minutes I would come and sit on his bed and we would talk.

Me and my teenage atomic bomb of feelings and him with pain from my mum leaving his side after 20 years.

“ You know, I go to sleep some nights wondering when it will happen. If this will be my last sleep,” Grandad says.

…

I look at his eyes- his eyelids like a favourite pair of pants with no elastic left.

I feel tears coming so I instead gaze towards the door and notice Nanny’s hats are still waiting on the hook.

Below them is a dog’s water dish- it remains untouched yet full. His last dog Heidi died just a few months ago.

“ I hope it happens in my sleep,” he says, still stuck on the thought.

“ More wine?” I ask, as I force my mouth into a smile.

Clear blue eyes stare back at me from across the table. Time may have touched his skin but they spared his eyes.

It’s like he was suppose to see everyday, even though every year his world grows a little more lonely.

Without Nanny, the house feels silent, like it’s asleep. I guess it only made sense to finally start saying things- the important things.

“How about some Port- I know it’s your favourite.” He gets up to grab the glasses and wipes a loose tear from my cheek.

It’s weird how things change. 

It can be wonderful and also sad, at the exactly same time. 

But then I can’t help but think, isn’t it something to be human and be able to feel a variety of things all at once.

At then one day, feel nothing.