Listening

Spoke with brother Wexford last night. He shared the following anecdote about when he was visiting old grandpa George (now deceased)…

The old man, for the last 4 weeks of his life, was living in an old peoples’ home (or whatever the PC term for such a place is now). Anyway, one Friday afternoon, sitting with the old man in his room, brother was told ‘I say son, I saw a bank robbery the other day’.
‘Is that right grandpa?’ asked brother
‘Aye, it is’ replied the old man
At this, I’m thinking ‘Oh my God, how come I never heard about this?’, I guessed maybe the old man had been taken out into the local town for the afternoon and at a distance had witnessed said raid bank robbery.
‘Then what did he say?’ I asked brother
‘Nothing really. I just said to him ‘Y’ know what grandpa?’, ‘What’s that?’ he said, then I just told him - ‘I don’t think you did’’
‘What?’ I asked, confused
‘Well y’ know, he was losin’ it wasn’t he, he was comin’ out with all sorts by the end’
‘Oh, yeah’ I acknowledged, feeling a bit shit for having been largely absent, ‘So what did he say when you said you didn’t think he saw the robbery?’
‘Nothing much, he just laughed - a lot, he reckoned it must have been his ‘mind playing tricks on him’’

Listening to this, I came over all sentimental and ridiculous; a tear may have rolled off my cheek. Had it been ma Wexford or grandma Elspeth listening to the old man’s break from reality they’d have awkwardly humoured him, probably shifting subject. Instead, brother – in his gorgeously frank but gentle way – had simply told it like it was – without embarrassment or fear. I could hear the old man’s chuckle as I ended the call with brother. Less than an hour later, whilst idling in front of the TV, Liz came in and offered me a Murray Mint. I hadn’t seen a Murray Mint for years. They were the old man’s favourite sweet.

I love listening, but being a natural cynic* can be a bit awkward sometimes.

* some would say 'realist'