Death on Grandpa's Balcony

It should have been an afternoon like any other. But it wasn't, it was probably Tuesday or Wednesday. I don't remember well. I was a child.

Years have passed. Still, I remember that afternoon well. That afternoon, I saw death. I had seen poverty for a long time.

That same afternoon, I saw how misery and hunger took the life of a child. I was a child, too. I was chasing a ball when I saw it. I saw the mother with the child in her arms—the child's grandfather. The mother with the child in her arms is walking quickly. She was going to take her to the hospital.

The child's grandfather stopped in front of the neighborhood grocery store. He spoke to the woman who had him. -They're taking him to the hospital. We found two thousand lek in debt. We don't have any bread to eat. I'm the grandfather; the mother took him. He cried all night.’’

He was a gray-haired man, his shirt stained. His hair was uncombed, maybe even unwashed. I don’t remember it well now. There are many things I don’t remember from that afternoon. I only remember that I saw death with my own eyes that afternoon and that I remembered it for many years.

The grocer’s wife gave him a loaf of bread. The child’s grandfather forcibly broke it. That loaf looked more like a stone than like bread. I remember that he took a little bite. Then my grandfather called me. My grandfather seemed lost, calm as always.

I still believe that my grandfather was a bear man. His head was very round, his cheeks very plump, his nose small. Come on, he said, leave that ball. But I didn’t go.

I don’t know how much time passed. The mother came back with the child in her arms. He didn’t move his body like before, and he didn’t cry. His grandfather had been standing at the grocery store, sitting on the dirt sidewalk. I don't remember well. My grandfather's house was across the street.

My grandfather was on the balcony, sitting on a chair. My grandfather and the child's grandfather were different. My grandfather had many cheeks. The child's grandfather had sunken cheeks. His bones stood out. My grandfather didn't. My grandfather was crying, the child's grandfather was screaming.

I often cried out of anger when they didn't give me what I wanted. And when I did this, I bit my lower lip. But my grandfather wasn't crying out of anger; he didn't bite his lip. My grandfather's eyes kept crying. The child's grandfather threw the bread on the ground. The white bread became red with dirt. He took the child in his arms, and he didn't cry anymore.

I went to my grandfather. I touched his chubby cheeks. They were wet. I kissed him. The cheeks had a bitter salt smell. I asked him why he was crying. I was still a child, and I didn't know how to ask him, so I said, ''Grandpa, why are you crying?'' Why are you crying, I asked him. And the grandfather replied, "I'm wiping my eyes."

The child's grandfather started crying faster than my grandfather had cried and said ''Why, son, why didn't you eat me? Why did you starve me?'' I don't know what happened next. I remember my grandfather taking me to the field and letting me play for a long time. He didn't even tell me if I was sweating; he let me chase the ball as much as I wanted.

And he even kicked it hard. He played with me. Now I know. It tired me out, so that I could sleep and not remember that that afternoon I had death in front of my eyes.