salty and bitter

Groggily, I rubbed my eyes, stretching my arms from the curled up position I had been in against the hospital bed. I realized, with a start, that the bed was empty. I bolted up and ran out of the door, calling for a nurse.

“Have you seen my grandfather?”

“He went out for a walk not too long ago”

Hurriedly, I searched for him, unable to find him until eventually I made my way to the rooftop.

There my grandfather stood. He held his IV drip with his left hand, to keep him upright. His left hand reached out, out of the safety of the canopy, his fingers dripping with water droplets.

I called out to him.

“Grandpa! What are you doing? I looked everywhere for you.”

He turned to me, slowly, and finally looked me in the eyes. I would never forget those eyes; usually riddled with pain and haziness from the morphine, but on that day they had a peculiar clarity.

Without withdrawing his hand, he whispered, “The rain. It feels wonderful”.

I felt a drip down my face, and a wet streak made its way to the corner of my mouth. I thought to myself,  There must be a hole in the canopy.

It’s salty.

Fingers trembling, I gingerly reached up to touch my face. Tears. My tears.

“Grandpa…” A suffocating dryness clawed up my throat. “Don’t leave me Grandpa”.

His eyes softened, and he turned his body towards me. With his frail, trembling hands he wiped away my tears, clearing away the salty streaks on my face with the taste of bitter rain.