Daybreak

I hate the sunrise.

Artists, philosophers, and all of those believers of that hopelessly romantic and bohemian cliché, marvel at it every morning, but I have yet to find purpose and meaning in an event that happens every day, no matter what, except in the event of an eclipse or the end of the world.

I’ve always felt that the sunrise does more harm than good. My bedroom window is so aptly placed that I am harshly awaken by the brutal, bright light at six in the morning, or earlier. My cheap President’s Choice brand excuse for curtains are about as useful at keeping out the sun as cellophane.

Not only that, but another sunrise signifies another day, another morning, in which I accomplish nothing of significance or anything worth remembering. My life has never been particularly exciting, and with every new day, I am reminded that it probably never will be.

My grandfather, on the other hand, adores the sunrise. Ever since he was a boy, he would get up early and watch the moon fall as the sun brightened the horizon. He would begin every day in this matter without fail; some days he would ask me or my mom to watch it with him. Before she was confined to her bed due to lung cancer, my grandmother would watch it with him at least once a week. After her passing, my grandfather, ridden with diabetes and failing vision, had moved in with my parents and I, and I was sure he longed for the company of someone who appreciated the sunrise more than us.

Within two years of my grandmother’s passing, diabetic retinopathy had completely taken my grandfather’s vision from him. Rather than watch me cross my graduation stage, he could only listen to the audience of proud parents clapping as each student out of a class of 762 received their fake diploma. Instead of watching my sister get married, he could only listen to the awes and sighs of the church convocation and feel the rice being thrown around and into his wispy white hair. Unable to see, he sat by his window every morning, trying to picture the sunrise the way it used to be. Even though he was surrounded by people who loved him, he chose to live as if there was nothing left to live for.

I never pitied him, not once. Sure, he lost his vision, but he wasn’t dead yet. He probably had at least a few years left of life that he was just wasting away sitting in his room. He never even bothered to learn Braille. I avoided him, mostly because I was so busy with studying for my LSAT and working part-time to pay off student loans, but also because I found nothing rewarding in spending time with my silent grandfather who wouldn’t even talk to me about the weather.

I found that being cold and callous, like me, was easier than allowing your mind to deeply connect with another person, animal, place, or daily event like the sunrise. I witnessed first hand the effect my grandmother’s death and the loss of his sight had on my grandfather, and the pain he felt. Eventually, all things will die, all senses will fade, all places burn, and even something as constant as the sun will one day burn out just like a 40 watt light bulb, blackening at least the Milky Way for eternity.

One day, I was just preparing for my final exam in sociology when unexpectedly, my mother phoned. Annoyed, I answered, predicting that whatever she had to say would not be something I’d like to hear.

“Hello?” I answered.

My mother’s familiar nasal tone greeted me. “Hey honey, it’s your mother.”“I know, mom, I have caller ID.”

“Oh you kids and your silly inventions nowadays.”

“You do know caller ID isn’t that new?”

“Well…”

I sighed in annoyance. “Can you just get on with it?”

“I’d like you to come over tonight.”

“Why?”

“Your father and I are going out to a charity dinner for the children’s hospital, and we can’t get your sister to come and look after your grandfather.”

Every attempt I’d ever made at trying to weasel out of babysitting my grandfather always failed. If my mother could be described with just one skill, it would be her undeniable ability of guilt-tripping others.

“Do I have to?”

“Honestly, Andie, how much more time do you think you’re going to be able to spend with your grandfather? He won’t be alive forever. Besides, your father and I don’t want to waste these tickets.”

Heaven forbid money can just be forwarded to a charity without those who donated getting something in return.

“I have to study.”

“Its just one night, and I know your test isn’t tomorrow. Tomorrow is Sunday.”

Some days, I wished my mother was as dumb as she looked.

I sighed, leaving a dramatic pause so my mother could wait in anticipation. Pointless, really, since she knew I wouldn’t deny her. “Fine, I’ll come over, but don’t expect this again anytime soon.”

“Oh thank you, Andie, you don’t know what this means…”

I hung up. I didn’t need to listen to her hyperbole of thank-yous.

That night, I brought my textbooks with me, knowing that I couldn’t anticipate much conversation and activity with my grandfather. Not one minute after I arrived, my parents had already driven halfway down the block. At least I could rest easy knowing that I wouldn’t be smothered in kisses that were so wonderfully faked by parents.

For supper, I warmed up two microwave dinners, seeing as being a college student, my strengths were not in my cooking. I brought them to my grandfather’s room, where I found him sitting on his bed, eyes focused and yet completely empty at the same time. His TV was turned on full blast; although he could not see the movie or television program, he had found a simple joy in just listening to what the actors or newscasters had to say. He thanked me softly as I placed the microwave dinner and a fork in his hand.

“Let me know if you need anything,” I muttered to him as I left his room. Closing the door behind me, I really hoped he wouldn’t.

I spent the rest of that night studying in the guestroom next door to my grandfather’s, waiting for him to have a problem. He had grown fairly self-sufficient even in his blindness, but like an on-call doctor, I had to be on the lookout for anything abnormal. He fell asleep by around ten, leaving me to myself until my parents returned which, knowing them, could be as late as tomorrow morning.

In the late hours of that night, or what could be considered the early hours of the next morning, I lay down on the bed, my tired eyes barely managing to stay open. I didn’t know how much more learning I could take. Yawning, I glanced out the window. The sun would rise soon, and since my curtains were still as useless as ever, I knew there was no point in trying to sleep. If my grandfather could still see, he would be waking up soon to watch it. I didn’t think he still did, but then again, I spent so little time with him that I didn’t even know what he did anymore.

To my surprise, I heard the sound of rubber soled slippers hitting hardwood in the room next door to me. I heard the shuffle of footsteps across the floor, and I immediately assumed that my grandfather had to go to the bathroom or something.

I went into his room, but instead of finding him leaving his room, I saw him at his window, perched on a chair with his elbows resting on the windowsill. “Granddad, what are you doing?” I asked.

“Watching the sunrise,” he replied.

“You’re blind, Granddad, you can’t see the sunrise,” I gently reminded him.

“You don’t have to have eyes to be able to see,” he whispered.

Confused, I walked up to the window and sat down next to him. His old age was probably rendering him senile, filling his mind with nonsense and delusions. “Granddad, do you need to take your medication now?”

He shook his head. “Watch it with me.”

“The sunrise? You’ve got to be kidding, you know I hate it.”

“That’s because you’ve never actually seen it,” he insisted, his eyes staring in my direction but at the same time, not looking at me at all.

“Sure I have. You used to make me watch it all the time when I was a kid.”

Taking my hand, he said, “You watch it, but you never actually see it. Please, just watch it with me. Just this once.”

I groaned. “Fine. Just this once.”

He breathed in deeply, closing his blinded eyes. “How many clouds are there today?”

I shrugged. “Not many. It’s pretty clear out, actually.”

He nodded. “Is the sky a little bit purpler to the east than to the west?”

I stared out the window intently, amazed that he actually remembered all of this. “Yeah, it is.”

My grandfather held my hand tighter, whispering to himself and to me all of the movements of the sunrise, almost as if it was one of Beethoven’s concertos. I could almost hear music playing with every passing moment, something that I had never noticed before during every sunrise I’d watched. Every stroke of colour had a role, and as a cast, they consistently pleased. The clear light rising over the horizon nearly blinded me, but for some odd reason, I didn’t care. I rested my head on my grandfather’s shoulder as everything fell into the place, blooming like a botanical garden on fast forward.

“Can you almost feel the heat of the sun on your face?” he asked.

“Yeah, can you?”

He nodded. “And the light—somehow, even though I’m blind, I can see it. It’s as if no amount of black can keep the sun out.”

The day awakened, the concerto was over for another day. If we listened carefully enough, we could hear the bird’s singing a call of vivification.

A blind girl learned to see that day. And a man with the eyes of every artistic genius vindicated a closed-minded cynic.

I turned my head and smiled at my grandfather. Somehow, he knew to smile back.