A midsummer night’s realization
My Grandpa died and “The Notebook” made me cry. No, it wasn’t the death of my masculinity, and no I actually don’t remember any of the characters names. For someone looking on, it might have been a little bit funny. But still, my Pepere died and “The Notebook” made me realize it. It was two weeks after the fact and there I was on the couch with my girlfriend. I was good up until the final scene when the woman with Alzheimer’s and her husband peacefully pass away in each others arms.
See, my grandpa died sitting in his wheelchair at a table. Just blink, and then his head’s down next to the watery soup that they thought passed for a meal; just bam, gone. Bye Pepere, I love you.I didn’t cry for myself. I cried for my grandma because if anyone deserved a death like the one in “The Notebook”, it was her.
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None of this- having to live another ten years without the man she sacrificed everything for and whom she loved more than herself- no, that wasn’t right. Maybe I’m too sensitive, but I watched that scene where they die and my throat started to tighten and my eyes closed.
My girlfriend clung to me because she knew. I was ashamed because I thought that I was above crying for movies. But I wasn’t crying for a stupid movie, I was crying for my Grammy and Pepere. Life wasn’t fair to them, especially the Parkinson’s disease. I knew that and I cried. So I wasn’t ashamed.So now, if someone asks me if “The Notebook” made me cry, I tell them “No, my Pepere did.
” Death next to watery soup isn’t something a man like my grandpa deserved. Man, did he have grit. He endured Parkinson’s disease for the last twenty years of his life. He did this with a dignity and integrity I can’t imagine.After the movie we took a walk. It was a beautiful night and there was a warm summer breeze and stars. We walked up to the top of a hill and looked up in silence.
Life was all around me and death was nowhere. I took a breath and let it out. People remember the deceased in different ways. I honor his memory by substantiating it the way he would have: with love, care, and hard work. I began volunteering at a nursing home like the one he stayed in. I get the best grades I can because that’s what he wanted for his four daughters and eleven grandkids. I am honest and frank with people.
I am thoughtful and careful. That night I was not scared to have my heart on my sleeve; I knew he wouldn’t have minded it. Before I did things because I needed to, now, I do them to remember. My Pepere deserves at least that.