Lia Liqokeli (ლია ლიქოკელი)

I hated my grandfather and wanted him to die.
I hated his water-colored eyes when he looked at me and I felt,
that he preferred to see someone else.
I hated his hat, which he took off only while sleeping
and I knew since childhood, I would get punished if I touched it.
I hated the silence of the house in his presence,
our going on tiptoes and not daring to laugh when he was out of mood.
I hated the stick with which he hit the cows and sometimes my cat,
his axe which he carried to the woods
to kill the trees
every single day except the week-ends, till he failed to walk.
I hated his light, quick body
which old age failed to reach
and I thought death would never reach it either.
Twice a year he would go to the city to buy some car-parts
or with any other pre-texts.
He would go by all means to the city bath and Navtlughi market
to bring all sorts of useless things
and colorful materials for clothes to my mother.
Once I heard, they rumored that he had a woman in the city
and twice a year took my grandmother’s self-made cheese to her.
He would bring the biscuits - old, hardly-chewable,
bought at the bus-station.

I would prefer those biscuits to anything else, and ate them in secrecy.
I ate them and thought this man would never die.
When my grandmother passed away, everyone said he missed her a lot,
but I thought, he lived better this way, -
there was an end to his everyday quarrels
with my granny bent to the ground, with all the weight of life pressed on her back-bone,
and I knew for sure – my grandfather’s guilt –
he lead the death which called for him astray and left it with my granny.
Then, gradually, he broke.
He failed to go to forests, got heavier and more difficult.
And his eyes burned my skin
and I was putting too much salt and pepper in his meal,
so much, that he would choke with cough whole days long.
but would not complain. Just looked at me and ate.
And I thought that this hatred was my hell.
Then I fed him with the watermelon pieces
soaked in sour wine.
He didn’t say a word.
And I got a thought it was more than hell
and I could not stand living in my skin any more.
At the end he started to grow small.
He lost both - his conscience and ability to move.
My father took care of him like of an infant,
fed him with a spoon and changed his diapers.
He had been dying for exactly one year,
and when everything was over,
for a long time I had a dream of him,
being buried carefully, still coming back home,
looking at me with his eyes damped in vinegar,
with bitter sauce dripping on his chin.
And I knew - for this,
for even only this,
my future child would fail to love me until I’d die.

Now I know how to love.
To love my stormy, heavy and dreary grandfather,
unloved by all,
bringing biscuits from the city to his ungrateful grandchildren,
a man, who went to and fro and at last, lied down with my grandmother
in the abandoned village cemetery.
Now I know, but the third one is always an outsider,
and everyone is an outsider –
while the two of them
lie together and know that nobody is watching.