Miss_Bliss

I can still hear his feet shuffling1） loudly， his walker2） rattling3） along the floor. He would call me， if no one was around， and it always surprised me how clearly he pronounced， maybe even over-pronounced， the "L" in my name.

When I close my eyes， he materializes4） in front of me： an old man， balding5）， smelling slightly decayed and looking moth-eaten6）， stooped7） with age and sadness， half-closed to the world and quietly living amongst us. Who could know that such a quiet man would have such a big impact on our lives？ My grandfather， my Zadie， was recently widowed8） and living in our home. In my mind's eye9） I can still see him， still almost relive10） each and every day he spent in our lives ...

Flash to pill time， one of six during the day， always marked by that hateful timer that would announce， screechingly11） and without fail—six times every single day—that it was time for Zadie to take his pills. Unless one of my parents was there （and they were often outside， or at work， or running errands12）， or just not in the kitchen）， it would be me who had to fill the glass of water and pull out a napkin and arrange each and every pill on the table in front of him.

"Celina？" The call， too， came almost without fail in the afternoons， accompanied by the shuffling and the rattling.

"One minute， Zadie， I'm getting your water." I would fill the glass and set it down in front of him. I would walk over to his walker， pull out the plastic bag containing everything he needed in order to successfully take his medication each day， turn off the timer and pull out the pill box as well as the sheet containing a list of all of the pills he needed throughout the day. I would lay each one down， forming patterns with them if I was in a good mood， or set them out quickly if I was not.

"Here you go， Zadie." The "thank you"， quiet and mumbled13）， would come sometimes， be forgotten others. But it didn't matter.

Flash to a string of good memories. If anyone had a sweet tooth14）， it was my grandfather. Our freezer was never devoid of15） ice cream， and our cookie jar never empty. I had a dream about him once， just after he had gone， and it was like I had stepped back into a memory； as I had many times before， I offered him ice cream， and， as he had many times before， he accepted. Always with whipped cream16） and with toppings17） if he could get them ... One of the few times he looked truly happy was when he was eating ice cream.

The other was when he read poetry； he had a few large books in his room， on his shelf. He would enter the room （shuffle， shuffle）， a book resting in his walker basket， and would sit at the table and read. Sometimes he'd have us read it to him； I remember particularly well the time I read him Allan Poe's18） The Raven. But I think Frost19） was his favorite， maybe because his poetry was quiet， like my grandfather. I believe he was truly happy when he read poetry.

And then ... Well， let's just say he fell. That's what they think happened. I don't think I was there for it， though I don't remember particularly well. But he fell down， and seemed fine， but they think it may have started something and triggered the bleeding. These last memories I remember particularly well. The last day I saw him， I had strep throat20）， and spent most of my day lying around. I guess Zadie had been mumbling nonsense， but I barely noticed； instead， I absorbed myself in the movie Mum had played for me. Finally， she called an ambulance ... I barely noticed when they loaded him onto the stretcher21）， only remember wishing that they would go away and be quiet so I could watch my movie in peace. They loaded him up， and then they were gone ... That was the last time I saw my grandfather alive， and I didn't even say goodbye.

I don't remember when I found out that he was dying. The shock was great for me， as he had been reasonably healthy. I cried hard after he had gone， still didn't fully absorb his passing for a long time after， and still expected to hear the rattling on the floorboards and the shuffling of his shoes as he wandered from room to room. There is so much I can still see when I try， so much I can still hear and feel and relive. My grandfather， my Zadie， was a quiet old man who would go on to leave me a good few regrets and a good few happy memories …

我仍然能够听到他沉重而拖沓的脚步声，还有他的金属助行架在地板上发出的咣当咣当的声音。如果身边没有人时，他就会叫我。他念我名字中的“L”时发音是如此清晰，甚至可能过于清晰，这总会令我感到惊讶。

每当我闭上双眼，他的身影就浮现在我的眼前：一位开始脱发的老人，闻起来有些许腐朽的味道，看起来十分沧桑；他因年迈和悲伤佝偻了身躯，半隐于这个世界之外，静静地生活在我们当中。谁会知道这样一位沉默的老人会对我们的生活产生如此重大的影响呢？我的祖父扎迪不久之前失去了我的祖母，搬到了我们家住。我仍然能在脑海中看见他的身影，也几乎能回忆起他与我们共同生活的每一天中的点滴情景……

我回想起扎迪吃药的一次经历。他一天需要吃六次药，那个讨厌的定时器总会发出刺耳的声音提醒他该吃药了——每天六次，一次不落。除非我的父亲或母亲在家（可他们却常常不在家，要么在工作，要么在外跑腿，要么就正好不在厨房），否则我就得去把玻璃杯倒满水，再抽出一张餐巾纸，然后把每一颗药都摆放在他面前的桌子上。

“塞利娜？”这声呼唤也几乎会在每天下午都如期而至，伴随着祖父拖沓的脚步声和助行架的咣当声。

“等一下，扎迪，我正在给你倒水呢。”我会把玻璃杯倒满水放在他面前，然后走到他的助行架旁，取出那个塑料袋（里面装着他每天得以顺利服药所需的所有东西），关掉定时器，再拿出药盒和那张列有他一整天需要吃的所有药的清单。