Buying Lenin

     "I wish you had died!" I shouted. "I wish you had died right there in your sleep."
     "Sinko," he said.
     "Don't call me sinko!" I shouted. "Your son is dead. They are both dead because of you."
     On the following day Grandpa left the city. ... I never heard him call me sinko again. 


     "Dear Grandson," it said. ...
     "Grandson, we've had a hard life, you and I. We grew old, not with years, but with deaths. You are now one death older. ... Be thankful for what you have. For what you've seen and for what you've been spared from seeing. ...
     "My dear one, forgive me."
     And at the end Grandpa had written just four words.
     "Sinko, I love you."

                   --Miroslav Penkov's "Buying Lenin"

     I like stories about grandpas. Maybe because my own grandpas didn't tell me stories. But that doesn't mean I don't have stories to tell about grandpa, what lovely things he quietly did for me. 

    He walked fast, and I had to trot along to keep up with his pace. He did not talk. But I remember holding his hand. Firm, like an adult's, but without that affection or protection for a child. It was an objective hand. I looked down as I wondered where we were going. I did not think he was a stranger. And of course it was much later when something finally hit me that he was my kidnapper. I don't know how far we walked when I heard grandpa shout my name. So loud, again. And again. I turned around, and I don't remember much from there. Except that that was the first time I saw grandpa run, except that his wrinkled hand held mine. Except that grandpa saved me, and I never told him thank you or I love you.