My grandparents' house has always been filled with noise.
First there were the sounds of my uncles growing up. Playing basketball with the neighbors in the driveway. Watching the new television. Probably fighting with each other.
Then came my dad, the "surprise." Just as things had started to settle down and my oldest uncle was headed to college, the house was once again filled with the sounds of childhood. A 45-record of the theme song to Batman played endlessly. Gilligan's Island on the television. Dirt bikes in the back field.
Next were the grandchildren: my cousins first, and a decade later me and my sister. Eventually a great-grandson came (not by me or my sister, thankfully). More kids, more noise, more joy.
In recent years the noise hasn't been supplied by children, but instead by my grandfather. Years of working in a factory ruined his hearing. As a result, he would turn the TV volume up to insanely high decibels. Everyone else in the room was then forced to carry out conversations in a low shout. Not that it was any quieter when the TV was off, since shouting was also necessary to have a conversation with my grandfather himself.
But on my most recent visit the house was remarkably quieter. My grandfather has started to have major health issues, and was hospitalized shortly before we left for Florida. There was hope that he might come home, but that has since disappeared. With him gone, the TV is rarely turned on in the day. (My grandmother has always preferred doing puzzles to watching gameshows.) Conversations can actually be had at normal levels. The house just isn't the same.
As I write this, my grandfather is still alive, but probably not for long. He didn't speak much during our visits in the hospital, and slept most of the time. His body is weakening, though he can still squeeze our hands with surprising strength. He still has his sense of humor, which I hope he retains to the very end.
He's still my Grampy. It's still his house. But something is different, and it will never be quite the same.
