My grandfather didn't talk to me much. I was little and apparently he wasn't fond of interacting with children. There were gifts though. A rocking horse and a grand wooden chest, both handmade. The chest was green with traditional floral ornaments and so big you could fit an adult in there. Despite or perhaps precisely because of this materialistic approach to love, I don't remember my grandfather well. Only one memory comes to mind - the day my family saw him on his deathbed.
I was 5 years old then. I remember excitedly knocking on my grandparents' apartment door, not knowing the reason of our coming. In my eyes, grandfather opened the door. I happily greeted him. No response. He silently looked at me, only me. The serious expression on his face puzzled me. Finally, grandfather turned away and we were let in.
The reason this memory is unsettling is because, in truth, he couldn't have opened the door. He was lying on his bed, dying of lung cancer. A smoker he was. My family went to his bedroom, to say their goodbyes. Apparently death scared him. I did not know. They left me in the living room, with someone supervising me at all times. I played with toys while my grandfather, unbeknownst to me, was dying on the other side of the wall.