Grandpa Was a Master Butcher

It's good you were a certified master butcher, wasn't it grandpa?
Thus I know you must have died as painlessly as possible,
when ramming this knife into your own heart.

Besides butchering beings properly,
you had learned
how painful dying of sickness is.

Grandma was the perfect example.

But grandpa,
didn't you also learn
how painful it is to be left behind?

The death-pale face of my uncle's girlfriend showed how dire you looked when they found you.

When I returned to your house all that was left was this
giant,
weird,
untouchable

emptiness.

Sure, everything was still there (along with the sturdy dirt in the corners that always refused to be scrubbed away). Every thing was so very familiar. The only thing missing was you.

But you weren't sleeping in your favourite chair and I knew.

Christmastime must have reminded you of how damn lonely you felt.
Happy Christmas to you and your loved ones, right grandpa?

And I kept asking
      and I kept asking
           and I kept asking myself
                Was this my fault?

I didn't think,
      we didn't think much,
           we didn't think much when we didn't...
I didn't think much when you refused to take those pills (your reasons sounded so reasonable).
I didn't think you would... (you seemed way too reasonable)...

Grumpy old knucklehead. Didn't you think we would miss you?

I hope you're playing Malefiz or Rommé with grandma in heaven. Do you still cut your bread into those tiny pieces? And the tomatoes, do you still peel them because they get stuck in your teeth otherwise? Nah, I hope they've got better teeth for you up there.

Kiss grandma for me and greet my aunt.
(Tell her she was always better cleaning your place than I was.)

Thank you for not bequeathing your car to me. God knows I couldn't drive that thing (properly). Still it was fun visiting this restaurant in the forest with you – after we both survived me driving down this narrow road intended for two cars but actually only wide enough for one.

I still miss you grandpa.
But it was your decision, not my fault, that you left.
Your decision that we will discuss, once I get a chance.

Did you forget you still owe me this stupid promotional trip we wanted to take, even though it was not your fault it was cancelled?

Here's the deal: Give me a promotional trip of heaven once I get there, and I'll let grandma sway me to forgive you (She always was the better diplomat anyway).