When I ran out of stories about camp, I asked them how their week had been. I did not really notice that my mother opened her mouth to say something and then stopped and looked to my father for guidance. "Just fine sweetheart," he said in a calm voice. Then he tried to shift the conversation back to me by asking, "How were all the meals?" I had already told him, but I went ahead and told him again. After that the car grew quiet, and everyone seemed to be intently focused on listening to what was playing on the radio. I watched as my mother would tighten her hand into a tight fist, then release her fingers, letting them stretch out as far as they would as if she was trying to will them to grow, then roll them back up into a tight fist again.
The car ride home seemed to take forever, and the fatigue from a week of barely any sleep was catching up; I finally just feel asleep. I awoke when the car finally came to a stop; I opened my eyes and was surprised to see that we were in my grandfather's driveway.
I hated going to his house; we spent most of our time there. When I would ask why we had to go the...
... middle of paper ...
...hort while, for I realized that my tears would never bring him back.
While my parents were away, my grandfather had slipped in the pool and hit his head and drowned. Apparently my father was the one who found him. He tried his best to revive him, but it was to no use. At first I was mad at my parents for leaving him alone; then I was mad at my father for not being able to save him. I had always thought of my father as someone who could fix anything; this was the first time he was not able to fix it. I soon realized that it was not their fault and that they did the best they could.
We went back to the house only a few times after that and only for short amounts of time. We sold the house in October and were able to get rid of most my grandfather's stuff at a garage sale that we had. We were all to eager to close that chapter of our life.
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