The Day I Said Goodbye to My Grandfather (2025 Creative Award Semi-Finalist)

Deep in the back of the storage room, filled with junk and cardboard boxes, sits the desk I used during my student days. The other day, after receiving a notice from my mother to "finally clean this place up," I managed to get off my butt—which felt heavier than a Snorlax—but I've always been bad at cleaning rooms. For now, I rummage through the cluttered drawers.

Then, a folded piece of paper that looked somewhat high-quality appeared. I've fallen into the trap of cleaning coming to a halt whenever a memento turns up countless times, and it seems this time is no exception.

When I opened it, it was a portrait of my grandfather that I had drawn.

If I recall correctly, I drew it during my grandfather's funeral.

Since I liked drawing, it's actually not half bad. Still, why was it left abandoned in such a messy room? Who on earth left something so important tucked away so carelessly?

I interrupt my cleaning to gaze at the portrait.
Around my grandfather, who was wearing a turtleneck covered in lint, were items associated with him while he was alive.

Shogi pieces, mandarin oranges, glasses, Yakult, and a bedside monitor. Memories of my grandfather come flooding back as vividly as a scene from a movie.

◇

"Crybaby" was my nickname.

I would cry when I fought with friends, cry when I was scolded by my parents, and cry when I lost at games. It was my grandfather who often comforted me.

If someone asked me, "Who was the person you loved most when you were a child?" I would answer "Grandfather" without hesitation. My mother's parents' house was nearby, and there was a time we lived together, so to me, he was a more familiar presence than my father, who was often away from home for work. The kindest and most reassuring person—that was my grandfather.

My grandfather was incredibly doting on his grandchildren. Not just on birthdays or Christmas, but even on ordinary days, he would buy me snacks and toys. He would praise every single one of the masterpieces I drew because I loved art. When I was a preschooler, we played Ultraman, and after I started elementary school, we often played shogi together.

According to my mother, his daughter, "He used to be scary as a demon," but to me, he was like a Buddha, so I find that hard to believe. With his white hair and glasses, if you exclude the fact that he was quite elderly and very thin, you could say he was like Coach Anzai from SLAM DUNK.

I have almost no memories of being scolded by my grandfather. Perhaps because I was the last born, I think I was the most cherished of his five grandchildren. They say, "You wouldn't feel pain even if you put them in your eyes," and that was exactly it. I can almost believe that he wouldn't have felt pain even if I were put into his eyes; in fact, there's even a part of me that thinks I would have been the one to cry in pain from being shoved into an eyeball.
Even when I hit my grandfather with all my might while playing the monster in Ultraman, cheated at shogi, or cried and threw a tantrum, my grandfather always smiled gently. It's only natural that I became a grandfather's boy.

My grandfather's lap was my special seat. Especially when eating mandarin oranges, I would sit on his crossed legs as if I were sitting in my favorite chair.
My grandfather often peeled mandarin oranges for me. He was a dexterous person, so he would peel them cleanly, even removing the white strings with his wrinkled, bony hands.
I would watch it intently from my special seat. The exposed fruit, with each segment shining like the setting sun, was like my own personal treasure.

My grandfather was kind, but since I was a brat, I often troubled him.

I loved Pokémon and arts and crafts, so one day I used an empty box that had contained Pokémon sausages, cut it with scissors, and drew pictures on the blank inside to play with my "handmade Pokémon encyclopedia."
When I stepped away and returned, a picture of Ash and Pikachu hugging was drawn in the Pokémon encyclopedia. My grandfather had drawn it for me with all his heart.
However, I was furious at the time. I felt that the Pokémon encyclopedia I had worked so hard on had been defiled, and I cried while blaming my grandfather. I asked him why he had scribbled on it.

My grandfather must have been shocked to have the drawing he made out of kindness rejected. Even so, his attitude remained gentle, and I grew up healthy, showered with my grandfather's abundant love.

There was only one time that my grandfather, who was usually doting on his grandson, scolded me.

◇

In the autumn of 1998, when I was in the third grade of elementary school, I was playing at a classmate's house when a minor incident occurred. Two classmates piled on top of me, thinking it was just roughhousing, and because I was small and frail, I couldn't move and eventually couldn't breathe.
Although I managed to escape, I burst into tears out of fear and sadness and ran out of the house. With my tears and hiccups still going, I ran for my life all the way back home. I remember that on the way, the orange sunset softly bleeding into the pale blue sky looked strangely beautiful.

Only my grandfather was home. As usual, he was reading the evening paper in his unique posture, sitting cross-legged on a single-person sofa. The same orange light from outside was streaming into the living room through the window.

I cried to my grandfather. I told him that two kids had piled on top of me, that I couldn't breathe, and that it was so painful. I thought for sure my grandfather would comfort me.

However, my grandfather's face was stern.
My grandfather said, quietly and firmly:

“Stop crying already. You’re a man, aren’t you?”

Honestly, I was devastated. My grandfather, whom I thought was kind, the grandfather I believed would always be on my side, had uttered such harsh words.

I think I might have cried to my mother when she got home later, but I don't really remember. I think that's because the image of my grandfather at that moment remains so vivid in my memory. The image of my grandfather with a stern look in his eyes, one I had never seen before.

This incident itself didn't change our relationship. Even after that, my grandfather was as kind as he had always been, and I remained a doting grandson. It just left a strong impression because it was the only time in my life that my grandfather scolded me.

Thinking about it now, that must have been my grandfather's own way of showing love.
Perhaps he sensed that in the not-too-distant future, we would be parting ways.

◇

In January 1999, my maternal grandmother passed away. For my grandfather, she was a wife he had been with for many years. The shock must have been immense.

Only about a month after my grandmother's death, my grandfather's health declined and he was hospitalized. My mother took me to visit him several times. Although my grandfather seemed the same as he was before his hospitalization at first, by the time March arrived, he was completely emaciated. His consciousness was so hazy that I couldn't tell if he was awake or asleep, and his skin was yellow, as if it had been painted with pigment. An indescribable, unpleasant odor drifted from his body, which was unbearable for someone with a sensitive sense of smell like me.

My mother once took a photo of me with my grandfather, but at the time, I cried and refused to go near him. It wasn't just the foul odor; I think I simply couldn't accept the unrecognizable state of the grandfather I loved so much. Eventually, I even began to refuse to visit him in the hospital.

◇

In March of that same year, my grandfather's condition worsened, and our family, along with my aunt's family who lived nearby, gathered at the hospital. On a cloudy afternoon, my grandfather lay in the middle of the hospital room on his bed. Everyone surrounded him, watching over him. The inorganic electronic beeping of the bedside monitor vividly conveyed that he was still alive.

As I stared at my grandfather with anxiety, my mother spoke to me.

"Rub Grandpa's feet for him."

Still young, I took this as a life-saving mission. I truly believed that by massaging his feet, my grandfather would be saved.

I placed a stool at the foot of his bed and sat down. Then, I pulled back the blanket in front of me to reveal his two soles. The skin, which had been yellowish just a few days before, was now so pale that I could feel no sign of life in it, and it was cold to the touch.

My hands began to rub those feet.

Grandpa, hang in there. Grandpa, hang in there.

No matter how much I moved my hands, my grandfather's feet remained cold. Still, I rubbed them frantically, as if trying to give my own body heat to him.

Grandpa, hang in there. Grandpa, hang in there. Hang in there, hang in there...

..............

Before I knew it, I had fallen asleep. I had been rubbing his feet so earnestly that I must have exhausted myself.

When I woke up, I noticed that the atmosphere in the hospital room was clearly different from what it had been before I fell asleep.

There are two new sounds.
One is the wailing of my sister, who is two years older than me.
And the other is the heartless electronic tone of the bedside monitor, which until just a moment ago had been ticking away at a steady 'beep, beep,' but was now a flat 'beeeeeeeep.'

My mind understood it. But my heart couldn't keep up. By the time my emotions started to catch up, the reality was already lying there before my eyes.

My grandfather is no longer here. His cold feet will never regain their warmth again.

Immediately after my grandfather passed away, my mother rushed in. I think she had stepped out for some errand, but she had missed it by just a little. She clung to my grandfather's body and wailed uncontrollably.

"Why couldn't you wait for me!"

Mom, I'm sorry. It's my fault. Because I fell asleep, because I stopped rubbing his feet...

Grandpa is gone.

After finishing all the procedures, we headed home. When I looked out the window, the sun had completely set. The quiet darkness seemed to reflect exactly how our family felt.

On our way out, I had someone buy me a Yakult from the vending machine in the hospital. It was a Yakult I often drank with my grandfather when he was alive. That day, I shared the 90-yen pack of two with my mother.

While drinking the Yakult, I apologized to my mother.
That I had fallen asleep while rubbing his feet. And that because of that, I couldn't save my grandfather.

Tears overflowed. I couldn't accept it. Neither my grandfather's death, nor my own mistake.

To me, in that state, my mother said gently.

"Because you rubbed his feet, Grandpa was able to go to heaven feeling comfortable. So, I'm sure Grandpa is thinking, 'Thank you.'"

Even though she hadn't been able to be there for her father's final moments, my mother acted bravely. That was likely because she knew how much I loved my grandfather, and that he loved me just as much.

However, even those kind words were something I, as a young boy, could not accept. In my small hand, which held a Yakult, the sensation of his cold feet still remained.

◇

Before long, my grandfather's funeral was held.

In the center back of the large funeral hall, many flowers were offered. Inside the neat box there, my beloved grandfather was sleeping.

I was supposed to read a farewell letter. With many people in black clothes watching over me, I stepped up to the microphone. Then, I took the letter out of my pocket and read it aloud. The letter was left inside my grandfather's coffin, and since my memory is hazy, there is no way to confirm the exact content. However, I vaguely remember what I wrote and what I read.

I was just apologizing, over and over.
I'm sorry for hitting you with all my might while playing Ultraman.
I'm sorry for cheating at shogi.
I'm sorry for getting angry when you drew Pokemon pictures on the sausage box for me.
I'm sorry for falling asleep while I was rubbing your feet.

Before reading the letter, I had my mother check the content. Seeing the text filled with apologies, my mother made a suggestion.

"Why don't you add 'And, thank you' at the end?"

Just as she said, I added that final line. However, when it came time to actually read it, I felt embarrassed and couldn't bring myself to say that part. Without that last line ever being read, the letter was consumed by flames along with my grandfather.

I should have really told him. It should have been the thing I wanted to tell him most of all.
I couldn't say it. I had discarded the most important and precious words with my own hands.

◇

Just as my memories of my grandfather are vivid, so too is my regret, helplessly and painfully so.
Dragging these two burdens of guilt behind me, I have lived in a world without him.

I was eight years old then; now I am thirty-five. Compared to those innocent days, I have become a properly tarnished adult. In the process of living, I have learned many things I could never have known while remaining pure.

Now, I feel I can understand the meaning of the words my mother said on the day I gave my grandfather his final send-off.

Because you rubbed his feet, Grandpa was able to go to heaven in peace. That is why he must be thinking, 'Thank you'—

The phrase 'giving a final send-off' has a cruel ring to it.
However, it originally seems to be a warm prayer, meaning 'to guide the deceased so they can reach the world of Buddha without issue.'

If what I did that day was a prayer—if it was a 'final send-off' in the original sense—then perhaps it was the happiest possible departure for my grandfather.
To have his beloved grandchild rubbing his feet in his final moments—there surely could be no happier ending than that.

More than a quarter-century has passed since our parting, and my grandfather is now a person of the past. Yet, the way he lived, and the way he died, still lives on within me. The time I spent with him made me strong, and at the same time, it made me weak.

That day, I truly did give my grandfather his final send-off. But it was not a despair, nor a curse. I can think now that that parting was a ritual for me to accept my own weakness.

This portrait, which was supposed to be placed in the coffin, was something I kept because I begged to hold onto it. Now, it has appeared before me once again.

Is this just a coincidence?

I want to try writing a letter to my grandfather again.

If there were a way to send a letter to heaven, what would I write now? I think about it and feel like it might end up being just 'I'm sorry,' but no, that's not it. Now is the time to convey the true feelings I have kept locked in my heart for so long.

'To my dearest Grandpa. Thank you for being my grandfather.'

It's no use, I can't stop the tears.
I haven't changed a bit; I'm still such a crybaby.

(The End)