It was 13th June.

Today − just like every year after I’ve turned 12 – I accompanied my grandfather who went to the cemetery to put some flowers on six particular graves. He slowly crouched down, accumulated all the fallen leaves and cleared the surface of each and every grave. Then, for long minutes, his eyes were staring far ahead and filled with bittersweet nostalgia. It seemed that something was eating him up; he was quietly struggling, clutching onto his chest, gasping for air and murmuring to himself.

When I first saw him, I thought that he was having an episode – it wouldn’t have been a surprise after all. But the moment I tapped him on the shoulder, he turned round to look at me and when our eyes met, I saw tiny teardrops shining in his eyes like beautiful sea pearls. He was definitely one of the most frightened creatures I have ever seen in my life. To my great astonishment, he shrugged my help right away. He was stuttering, searching for the right words to say while I tried my best to help him but he didn’t let me – not even once.

As years went by, I became quite hesitant when I noticed that 13th June was just in a few days’ time. I asked my parents why I should go with him when I don’t even know who he visits and they merely said the following:

“Your grandfather has a very tragic and sorrowful past. Since we can’t always give him a lift to the graveyard, at least you should be there for him. Once you will be old enough, I’m sure he would tell you what you need to know.”

That was it. Grandfath