When I was ten, I remember hearing that my grandfather, my only grandfather, had had a heart attack. My mother never knew her father, and her mother never cared for her. As for my father, his mother was just as mean and hateful towards children. My grandmothers thought we got in their way. My grandfather was the only person i could feel comfortable around. Every time i came to his house, he sat me down in the small kitchen with the iron chairs that weren't very gentle on your rear end. And every single time I came there, after he would bring me into the kitchen, he ask me the same three words, ''You hungry dear?''. My grandfather had a deep low voice, but it was gentle, always. His house smelled of soap, soup, and dust. And he smelled like a cardboard box that had been filled with soap for years. His name was Andrew Joseph Check Sr. But i always called him grandpa. He had a strange like for doves, and he had over the years, saved many from death. And he kept these lovely birds in his basement, where he also kept his washing machine and dryer. It was a little musty down there, but very clean and organized. Besides me, these birds were probably all his company. He would even take this birds to the avian vet because most had been shot with a pea-gun or had broken wings and legs. Well, after a few years of having a good ten of doves, somebody broke into his house at night and killed them all, breaking their necks and spreading their blood all over the basement. My grandfather was very upset, and he appeared in the newspaper for calling in the crime. I still have that newspaper clipping.
After his beloved Doves had been killed, and the criminal had been caught, he never kept another dove again. Instead, he built a birdhouse in his backyard, which was big and empty. he constantly fed the birds, and by now he had gotten a family of bluebirds that laid eggs every year in that box, and flew to warmer places during the winter. Only to come back the next year to lay more eggs.
I would've been lucky to have seen my grandfather once a month. And when i visited him, he'd give me one dollar for how old i was. I didn't care about the money, but i was thankful for it, because I am never given an allowance or any kind of money frommy actual parents. My dad got jealous and would always say, ''You only love him because he gives me money''. When he said that, i was always speechless, and he assumed that his statement was true. My dad never had anything good to say to anybody, especially my grandfather.
And as for my grandmothers', they never visited me, and when they did, they ate at our house and left. I hate them and still do.
So when i heard that my grandpa was in the hospital, very sick, i got worried. He was flew there in a helicopter and wasn't even in a good hospital that he wanted to be in. I never got to say goodbye to him, and after staying for a week with no progress, they pulled the plug, and he died. Now that i think about it, i sometimes wonder if his death was caused by smoking, because he always smoke cigarettes, but never near me, never. And never in his beloved house.
And the oddest thing of all is, he died at about noon on a Thursday, and usually, when he wasn't sick, he'd call his sister to tell her to take her medication because she often would forget. but since he had been ill, he hadn't called her, until a half an hour after he died. His sister, whom was younger then him by a few years, got a call after he died from his own cell phone, at the same exact time he used to do, but when she picked up the phone, nothing. No voice, nobody. His sister thought he was better since he had called her, thinking the phone call just got dropped accidently, but she was shocked to find out he had died before the phone call.