Why I HAte the Dusk

When I was little, about 4 or 5, my mother was dying from cancer. She went in and out of the hospital, nine times in all, and when she wasn't dying of cancer she was working three jobs. I missed her. An only child with no family but my grandfather, I was shuffled around when she went sick. This particular time I was staying with my grandfather. My grandmother had recently died from cancer, ironically, and the two of us, both grieving the people we loved the best, were in a world of shit. I hated staying with my grandfather because most of the time he was a cold, loathsome, boring German WWII vet. The rest of the time he was a manic, entertaining German WWII vet, but not this time, when he'd lost his wife, was losing his daughter and was saddled with me. I wanted my mother so badly, and after waiting and waiting for her to pick me up I asked in frustration when she would arrive. My grandfather waffled and hemmed and hawed and finally told me, "Your mother is zeek, she ist in zee hospital, she vill come for you vhen she can." I remember being so angry that I had to stay at that boring stinky house that I screamed, "I hate her!" My grandfather picked me up, put me on the cold, scratchy polyester sofa diagonal from the window and quietly said, "Zen I hate you." and he walked away. I sat on the couch as the sun sank down the sky until the treetops were lonely sillhoutes against the dusk and the house was completely dark and silent but for the soft clucking of the clock on the wall, until finally my grandfather came back. "I like you again." he said.