His cheeks were sunken; his right eyelid covered a mass of black hole, his eyeball was gone underneath. I wished he could have seen my face. I wished he could have seen the sun before the end.

He clutched onto his walking stick as if his life depended on it. He could not move far; he collapsed on the chair behind him, far from us. I think that will be the only chair he will ever sit.

His face resembled my grandfather, only much possessive, older, and more weary. I looked at his tired face and approached him. I bent down to kiss his hand.

Who knows it might be the last.

Only god knows.

Oh god, don’t let it end so fast.

Probably he had never loved me as my grandfather did. Probably he did not even know my name. Probably he had never seen me before.

Seeing his face filled me with deep remorse. When he opened his mouth to speak, I thought I was going to cry. The sadness was hard to win over. Perhaps I sympathised with his inevitable rapid aging, perhaps it was the fact that he was going blind, or perhaps he resembled my grandfather so much.

Good god, I was looking at the face of my grandfather again!

‘When I am gone, promise me you’ll still keep in touch with each other,’ the old man spoke very slowly with his strong Javanese accent. He was going deaf too. He gasped at every word that emanated from his mouth as if it took all the effort in the world to pronounce them. Tears were bursting to come out of my eyes. I could not bear to look at him anymore. And yet I gazed at him thoughtfully, hoping, one day it would be better. That one day death ceased to exist and good men as him lived fearlessly with immortality.

The fear of never seeing him again grasped me with despondency. I don’t care how cliché it is to say that losing someone hurts so much even if you barely knew them. I don’t care how cliché it is to cry and fear for the extinction of a valuable primate. I don’t care how cliché and stupid it is to love someone you don’t know much about.

It suddenly came back to me, the memory of my dying grandfather. Going back, looking at myself standing there beside his bed with hopelessness and the forbidding silence that drowned the murmuring prayers. Standing there like a bewildered audience to watch a spectacle performance, waiting for the angel of death to devour the sacrifice.

I don’t care how cliché it is to say that seeing someone die would be the most horrible thing you would ever see. It was the strangest phenomena ever. It is surreal.

Then I was back in the house, trying hard to move my eyes away from the tired face. I don’t want to go to another funeral; I don’t want to see another weary face. He could walk the last time I saw him. When I was younger, he was vibrant. I thought I was going to die before everyone else.

Perhaps I hate the hopelessness of not being able to save everyone.

Perhaps I do love him because he deserved it more than anyone did.

Perhaps I thought old people did not deserve to die.

I gazed at him hopelessly. It was no use. I wished I could have embraced him and said death would not be so bad. Just days ago he dreamt about the angel of death and he wept in terror. I wished I could have loved him more. I wished he could see again. I wished for many things, but people would have thought I was crazy to make them true. I wished someone else felt the same way.

Depression settled in when it was time to leave him to his deep slumber. I kissed his hand, took his scaly fingers with both my hands, and gave him a reassuring pat. Sometimes I think I am just a disastrous poet who cannot convey her messages. I wished I could have screamed, ‘Hold on and do not ever let go!’ I wished I could have hid him in a safe place where death could not touch him. It was no use anyway.

Who knows it might be the last.

Only god knows.

Oh god, don’t let it end so fast.

And I left. I hoped he would be sitting on that very chair next year when I visit him again.