Last Saturday, I came to church for an engagement ceremony. I dreaded it, of course. I came and I sat and I thought to myself I hate it. I hate this place now.

I forced smiles and exchanged niceties, I avoided people as much as I could and told them I was fine when I couldn’t. I’m not, obviously. I don’t hide things very well. But they don’t care, not really, and I don’t want them to know.

The bride was beautiful. I wished the couple well.

I thought of leaving early, walking out halfway of the courtyard. I didn’t know why I turned back inside. I see my grandpa talking to his friends in the corner. I hear my grandma calling my name with a laugh. I swallow the tears back. I hate this place now.

And then I looked up and saw your grandfather. We locked eyes, as if he recognized me. You have his eyes. I don’t know if you ever told him about me. Perhaps I’ll never do.

I felt my eyes wet with tears, so I looked away. I see my grandpa helpless in a hospital bed. I hear my grandma crying. I hate this place now.

I lingered on for a while. I looked around to see if I knew anyone I could pretend to have a conversation with. I didn’t, I was alone. I saw his wheelchair from the corner of my eye. He was leaving.

I didn’t know why his caretaker wheeled him my way from all the directions in the universe. He looked straight at me in the eye, and he smiled. I saw yours in it, too.

Before I knew it, I bent down. I told him I was your friend, and who my grandfather was. Thank you for the flowers you sent to the funeral. They were beautiful. He nodded, still smiling. I didn’t know if he could hear me. He let go of my hand from his, which I didn’t realize he had held until the warmth went away. And then he went. I walked the other way. I feel my grandfather’s arm around me. I hate this place now.

How are things in London? Is it everything you’d hope it would be?

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