Grandfather story at the takeaway restaurant

I remember when the clouds rolled in and swallowed the afternoon sun. The air had thickened, humid as raindrops rang hot, sizzling on the tin plated roof of my living room. I remember sitting in my favourite chair, dolefully adjusting my collar while bracing for the impending storm. But as always, I wasn’t ready when it arrived.

She whirled in without so much of a knock on the door, and thundered with indignation before me. I barely protested with a few fumbling gestures before I slipped below her bubbling stream of admonishment. 

Drowning again in the acknowledgement of her outraged outpour, I know that the depths of my past and my sin will never be filled with suited redemption. But I understand that this is the fault of human experience. 

We are built to be selfish in nature, and are often subject to defending our corrupt notions, even when we half recognize their fallibility. Even when we have the desire to attain a higher moral ground. What I did was an honest mistake, of course. But still, it was wrong. And I had promised my daughter that I would do better.

I wasn’t always like this, you know. I used to argue with her for the sake of convenience. The coarse thoughts that tumbled from my mouth echoed the sentiment of simple lives. What use is my effort if it all comes down to nothing? Why should I be inconvenienced when the larger counterpart of the world itself does not seem to care? 

Let it be, I had said. A life grows simply, a forest grows simply, and we will all simply die. You undoubtedly have good dreams, but until the weak learns to stand with the strong, until the mindless march for money has dispersed, until the powerful has given peace its authority for a future, I have no qualms in the continuation of indulgent convenience. After all, what harm can we do when we’re already practicing such a lifestyle on a daily basis? 

Then I got slapped to my senses by my own daughter. 

It was a disgrace to awaken to the fact that these justifications I had for my life were warped and unimaginably irresponsible. “What kind of world do you want to see your grandchildren in?” she seethed at me. “Will there even be a world for my children? You claim to love them, but you’re actively playing a part in ruining their land and future, grandpa. Stop being selfish, and realise that you have your part to play.” She hit me hard, alright.

And there I was, shamefully putting the open fire out in the yard and quietly sorting out my waste to the right bins. The redemption when I saw a proud glint in her eye! But she told me that I had to do more.

And that’s why I’m so sorry, dear. I’ve forgotten to bring my tupperware again, so you must excuse me if I don’t buy the packaged takeaway lunch.