My grandmother gets sad when her clock stops

My oldest grandmother (that's not how you usually distinguish grandparents, but that's how I'm going to do it) told me, one beautiful day, sunny afternoon, one of the few times that I, as a bad grandson, go to visit her at home "I bought this clock used many years ago" with the typical grandmother exaggeration in her voice "It stops once in a while and I get very sad, I stop it too". I didn't tell her then, but I had a very strange feeling when she told me that. A feeling of notion. A sense of finitude. Of mortality.

It came to me that my grandmother is not walking towards youth, with her dark but paler skin and her wrinkles, bone problems and roots whiter than snow - only her very light blue eyes remain. I lied the last time I sang Happy Birthday to her: I sang "many years of life" (in portuguese it makes sense) and I know, or now I know, that in all probability, she won't have them. When the clock stops, I will be very sad.

I get frustrated with myself for not spending more time with her. Now it's simply because I don't have that possibility, I live far away, but I spent many years (basically from birth to my adulthood) as her neighbour - literally. I admit I've never been a great grandchild. Neither a great family member to be honest. It makes me sad to think that the only serious conversation I had with her was, interestingly enough, on that day and it was, of the conversations that I remember, one of the most enjoyable and probably the most sincere conversation I have ever had with a relative other than my mother.

This is also another stone in my shoe: my relationship with the concept of family. My more emotional side (which has, admittedly, decreased in volume over the years) tells me to "be with them", "make an effort" because "you can't choose family". My more rational side tells me, like a little devil on my shoulder and for whom I have much more affinity: "family is also chosen". Not in the literal sense, of course (I can't change anyone's blood), but in the sense that my consideration for my relatives has to go, and often doesn't, through the same stages that friends go through. I say this in the sense that often relatives treat me exactly as such, a relative and not as a person with their faults and qualities. Our interaction has little to nothing to do with our personal values. If I met them outside of a family context I would have no interest in them or they in me and I speak even of very close relatives. Of course they are not all like that, there are exceptions and I can say with some pleasure that these exceptions are even abundant. But the desire is not enough to truly know them. Something is missing, a factor that with friends you don't even think about.

My grandmother is certainly one of the people I want to get to know better. All my grandparents, for that matter. To my regret, the only one of the four who I can no longer get to know is my youngest grandfather, who hasn't been the same since his first stroke. He is still and always will be one of my favourite people and the one who makes me feel nostalgic the most. From what I've been hearing from my younger grandmother and my godmother etc. is that he had a very difficult temper and wasn't always the best person. But he never made me feel that way when I was with him. I vividly remember spending whole afternoons playing checkers and either at the end, or early afternoon, or even in the morning (maybe the memory isn't that strong) going to have my lemon carioca or, more often, coffee carioca, accompanied by his coffee - I owe my addiction to him, no doubt. I don't know if today he would like me or I, him, but I know I have a lot of affection for him.

When the clock stops I will be very sad. I think I can say the same about all four of them and for very different reasons that could perhaps bore the reader.

I end my text with a taste of nostalgia, both for the past and for the future, for what could be, can be and also what can never be