A few weeks ago, I realised I had been caught up in a perverse personal experiment. Whenever my parents rang me, I’d watch the phone for a moment, then invent a reason as to why they might be calling. The reasons I invented were usually bad: something earth-shattering had happened in the neighbourhood, one of our relatives had just done something unthinkable. A more banal one was that one of my grandparents, on my dad’s side, had died. Don’t worry, it’s not as morbid as it sounds. They are both on their way out, have been for a while now, everyone is expecting it. Suddenly they couldn’t take the bus alone; then they were less able to work the cooker; then to walk. And since then, I have studiously avoided visiting either of them more than I have to.
I have touched on the reasons for this in previous columns: I am not especially close to my family – looking like a boy and spending an inordinate amount of time with a mysterious Australian woman doesn’t help – but being historically aware, I can’t ignore the life my grandparents endured in order to give me the life I have today. It’s just a shame that after all that, we have so little to say to each other.
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