A Bridge That Doesn't Join — Grandparents Running Out of Time
My sister's three children are in and out of my parents' house the way grandchildren are supposed to be — pulling on the same old familiar love that's always been there, the kind that doesn't need explaining or defending, it's just there, like it was for me at their age. I have strong memories of my grandparents, all four of them. All different, but equally important to complete a picture, a tree, a family tree. My own two are somewhere else, cut off from that, by a decision that wasn't theirs and wasn't mine.
This is a wound that will not close. My parents might not live long enough to see this heal, if it doesn't, then it never will. They will carry this into their last years, and then they take it with them into their graves, unresolved. Somewhere down the line — I don't know when, maybe not until they're much older — my own children will demand answers to their questions. Questions about the grandparents they lost time with, "why was this stolen from me", and I will only have answers heavy to accept. Just the truth, raw and open, for them to carry themselves. My hope is that they will be strong enough to process the grief, and that it will soften over time. And maybe the most important part, that it will not carry across the next bridge, where I will be at the end waiting for my grandchildren to embrace me, and I them.
Two erosions running side by side. One, nobody can stop. The other man made, which is possible to mend. Repairing this bridge takes courage, because whoever damaged it never had to show their face. Sitting with the feeling that I should have seen it and prevented it, is heavier than you can imagine. I failed as a father to do the most important job a father does, protect his children. It was slow, it was hidden and I wish I could turn back time.
I think about the divide running between generations, a bridge that doesn't reach the other side. The kind of erosion that doesn't show up all at once, but is whispered into existence. It's used to empower everyone using it. A bridge like this is built on trust, patience and wisdom. This bridge becomes useless, when the travelers start to believe it's not safe, or told they can't cross it. Even if the bridge is perfectly safe, believing it unsafe is enough to stop using it.
Somewhere in this story there is someone living — who, whether they meant to or not, became one of the flying monkeys carrying this out. Whispering about the broken bridge, nodding in agreement or staying silent. If they stopped today it doesn't give my parents back the years that have passed, while the bridge stood unused. It's stealing something specific from my children — the chance to know where their dad comes from, who came before him, what that even looks like. It's robbing me of the chance to share my children with my parents while there's still time. It truly breaks my heart seeing this unfold, powerless. That is raw grief, that unravels my feelings and leaves me crying.
I don't have an ending for this post, because there isn't one yet. Just a broken bridge, guarded, so it can't be repaired, and two old people at one end of it who deserve better than to spend their last chapter watching what they yearn for, at a distance.
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Grieving without pretending, loving without conditions, writing without certainty and hoping without guarantees
