(no subject)
Dear Grandad,
Today is your third anniversary. I miss you.
I don't think you'd like the world you left behind. Rich and poor people starving to death; one because they can't make, find or buy enough food, the other because they insist on conforming to some inhuman ideal of perfection.
This is a world where "Intelligent Design" is championed over the harder science of evolution. A world where peanut packets contain the warning "May contain nuts". A world where the masses watch the brave, the bumbling and the desperate dance on televised puppet strings and call it 'reality TV'. A world where I can talk daily to my friends no matter where on the vast planet they call home. A world where a phone the size of a matchbox can offer me the wonders and horrors of human thought and endeavour.
You wouldn't know this world, Grandad. You wouldn't like most of it, I think, but then you always surprised me with what you liked and didn't like.
I've changed too, not as much as I wanted or hoped to and certainly not into what I wanted to be. I'm afraid of the future, ashamed of the past and teethering forever on the brink of the present. I've gotten stuck here, wheels spinning and gears churning in my rut. I want to say things will be different but words are cheap.
I'm afraid. Afraid of the next missed-chance, failed test or just the next empty day. I'm afraid of the apathy, afraid of the day I just give up - assuming it hasn't already passed. I'm afraid of failing to keep up with my friends, afraid that I'll push too hard or not enough.
When you told stories of Cu Chulainn and Finn and the Fianna, all brash and bold, you never told me that making friends isn't the hard bit. Making friends is just a accident of faith or trust enough to offer that first overture. Making friends is easy.
Keeping friends is hard. It's like being part of a team, one where you're the only one who doesn't know the rules and all you can do is stumble along behind and try not to drop the ball whenever it winds up in your court. It means never being sure that what you do, or say is right and learning not to be hurt when they make a mistake or just have an off day.
Speaking of friends, I've found God. Well, I've found the shape of something that I'd like to believe is there but know that I'll never be able to prove. I stopped believing once and I'd like to think you understood. You were the only one who didn't raise an eyebrow when I stopped taking Communion, never pushed me to come to Mass or take part in anything religious.
I never was brave enough to tell you but I like to think you'd have understood. You were a great story-teller, Grandad, but your emotional communication skills weren't all that spectacular.
I like my church though, even if it is full of scarily intelligent people. I spent the Friday before Christmas talking to a man who lost his mother to some random act of butchery by Saddam Hussein. He told me about the Marsh Arbs and the desert tribes and the quiet, insular people who live there. He told me about the people, after months and years of television making them victims or monsters.
He has faith in not-faith, I envy him that. Faith seems to be a wonderful thing to have; but a bloody difficult one to find.
There's more to tell you, but most of it is just to pass the time, I'm writing this because I could never say what I felt back then, but we could write letters all year long.
I'll stop here, Grandad. Dad's talking about a visit to the graveyard in the New Year, I'll talk more then.
I miss you.
Today is your third anniversary. I miss you.
I don't think you'd like the world you left behind. Rich and poor people starving to death; one because they can't make, find or buy enough food, the other because they insist on conforming to some inhuman ideal of perfection.
This is a world where "Intelligent Design" is championed over the harder science of evolution. A world where peanut packets contain the warning "May contain nuts". A world where the masses watch the brave, the bumbling and the desperate dance on televised puppet strings and call it 'reality TV'. A world where I can talk daily to my friends no matter where on the vast planet they call home. A world where a phone the size of a matchbox can offer me the wonders and horrors of human thought and endeavour.
You wouldn't know this world, Grandad. You wouldn't like most of it, I think, but then you always surprised me with what you liked and didn't like.
I've changed too, not as much as I wanted or hoped to and certainly not into what I wanted to be. I'm afraid of the future, ashamed of the past and teethering forever on the brink of the present. I've gotten stuck here, wheels spinning and gears churning in my rut. I want to say things will be different but words are cheap.
I'm afraid. Afraid of the next missed-chance, failed test or just the next empty day. I'm afraid of the apathy, afraid of the day I just give up - assuming it hasn't already passed. I'm afraid of failing to keep up with my friends, afraid that I'll push too hard or not enough.
When you told stories of Cu Chulainn and Finn and the Fianna, all brash and bold, you never told me that making friends isn't the hard bit. Making friends is just a accident of faith or trust enough to offer that first overture. Making friends is easy.
Keeping friends is hard. It's like being part of a team, one where you're the only one who doesn't know the rules and all you can do is stumble along behind and try not to drop the ball whenever it winds up in your court. It means never being sure that what you do, or say is right and learning not to be hurt when they make a mistake or just have an off day.
Speaking of friends, I've found God. Well, I've found the shape of something that I'd like to believe is there but know that I'll never be able to prove. I stopped believing once and I'd like to think you understood. You were the only one who didn't raise an eyebrow when I stopped taking Communion, never pushed me to come to Mass or take part in anything religious.
I never was brave enough to tell you but I like to think you'd have understood. You were a great story-teller, Grandad, but your emotional communication skills weren't all that spectacular.
I like my church though, even if it is full of scarily intelligent people. I spent the Friday before Christmas talking to a man who lost his mother to some random act of butchery by Saddam Hussein. He told me about the Marsh Arbs and the desert tribes and the quiet, insular people who live there. He told me about the people, after months and years of television making them victims or monsters.
He has faith in not-faith, I envy him that. Faith seems to be a wonderful thing to have; but a bloody difficult one to find.
There's more to tell you, but most of it is just to pass the time, I'm writing this because I could never say what I felt back then, but we could write letters all year long.
I'll stop here, Grandad. Dad's talking about a visit to the graveyard in the New Year, I'll talk more then.
I miss you.