Final episode for now.

Audio production by Iona Lowe.

Story and reading by Adam RW.

Originally read at the Storytime Winter Solstice on 20 December 2024.

TOMORROW

Their correspondence continued. His grandfather had resolved the question of the caps lock button and now deployed it at appropriate intervals. But now, he encountered other inbox issues for he was inundated with pitches and recommendations. Though his knowledge of the underlying technicalities was admittedly limited, he found himself increasingly optimistic about Bitcoin’s prospects. As an optimistic octogenarian, he was open to overtures made by some of the more fringe political parties. And, though he had been contentedly married for sixty-two years, Gramps was intrigued by the content of emails with banners bearing the words

HOT

RUSSIAN

WOMEN

Obediently, he would forward each such email to Greg, accompanied by a What do you think of this one? on the line above.

Greg now had to ensure he did not check these at work. After a quick scan, he would reply, Gramps, it’s spam, stop clicking on it.

But Gramps could not understand where they would have obtained his email address.

They must be friends of friends or something, he replied.

Gramps, no… there are massive databases with these things. I’ll set up a rule so they all get deleted without you reading.

But I might want to check them? Gramps asked with a question mark.

No Gramps, Greg said, just leave them.

A pause then in their correspondence.

Alright, said Gramps finally.

These were not the only issues. Gramps found himself exploring the formatting boxes, pushing the text into a range of fonts and effects.

“F**k’s sake”, Greg would whisper, as an email zoomed in from Gramps with a slow motion, sparkly reveal of a message in comic sans font size 196 that read: Next door neighbour’s dog been hit by a car.

How does he even do that? Greg murmured to himself. “I literally would not know how to do that if I wanted to”.

Is it alright? Greg replied.

Nope, Gramps replied, in Verdana, font size 8, dead.

Gramps ventured further into the settings box, discovering the delay send button and clicking it indiscriminately. Greg emailed one Sunday about a visit the following day and received the reply from his grandpa, a one-liner reading: “Looking forward to it” three and a half weeks later.

In more irritable moments, these things enraged him, and he wondered why his older relative could not learn how to effectively program the machine. But in smaller, and more significant ways, he came to rely on their emails.

“Not doing that well this week, Gramps, off work. Struggling a bit. Hope you and grandma are well”.

Gramps tended not to delay his replies to these.

Sorry to hear it, boyo. Look after yourself. Work can wait. Take good care. Get outside if you can. Lots of love from both of us.

This was good advice from the older man. But somehow, Greg lacked the requisite combination of will or ability. And he sank down and denser, further still. Their emails could elicit a brief smile but something had stopped filtering through. Dissolution, not quite there, standing in queues, walking to work, checking his phone.

Not sure about tomorrow, Greg tapped out to his grandfather, sorry gramps.

He lay down at night, staring at the ceiling, truthfully not thinking of much at all, kitchen floor cool against his back. The pre-emptive guilt a shield against the blade, contemplating his father having to drive the half an hour or so, parking carefully, getting out and pausing momentarily to lean on the roof of the car, heavy with it, to tell them. The prospect of his own responsibility for that moment was what held him back most times, right wrist upturned to the fluorescent light, left hand shaking, before dragging himself to bed.

Gramps slipped away quietly on the morning of his favourite sort of autumn day, clear blue, ice in the air, leaves ablaze in the trees, mushrooms clustered on rotting oak. Greg had not received a reply to his last email. There was some clarity in the grief, something sharp about the jobs to be done. But as days passed, the compression returned. There was a funeral, he knew, he had been, pushing himself into a dark enough suit and making a quiet speech. But the fabric and substance of the day, Greg could not comment on. He retained nothing of it.

The days cracked and popped as they shrank, as if they were releasing something. He would wake to check the time at some inexplicable hour, drape a limp hand across his forehead and roll over, try to sleep, push it back, wake in the evening, spend the night on his phone. He knew now that there would be no more emails, no warming buzz, no more requests to screen messages from would-be brides or business partners or tell an uncle something or help with the attic room. His inbox was empty.

Then there was one, a little red “one” above his inbox icon early on a Saturday morning, from his grandfather’s email address. Greg assumed it was an administrative cock-up or a tone deaf prank from a cousin. But then he saw it was titled TOMORROW (all in caps) and he remembered his grandfather’s adventures with the delay send button.

Hello boyo, Gramps said, in lower case, sorry to hear you’re still not feeling well. I know you’ve seen a doctor and I hope that it is useful. I know it helped your mum for a time. I’m not sure there’s much I can say but.

Gramps had pressed the enter button twice here.

Firstly, I did some research and you were right, the Peruvian royal family doesn’t even exist. Thank you AGAIN (in capitals) for helping me with the emails.

I am always very grateful.

If this had been a conversation, Greg would have sensed Gramps on the cusp of struggling to say something.

Tender isn’t weak. It makes you what you are. And that means many, many (the second many was inexplicably in superscript) people care about you. I am at the top of that list.

You might not be quite where you want to be. And I’m sorry about everything that’s happened. But – two dashes, new line, font change.

I am very proud of who you’ve become.

I can’t promise you that things will definitely get better. But please just make it to TOMORROW (the word had been capitalised).

And see where you get to from there.

Lots of love,

Gramps

PS. We’re both on our sick beds at the moment – sleep terrible. Trying to sort those damned settings buttons how you showed me – hopefully this will get to you later this morning so it doesn’t wake you up. Send me an email when you get this.

Greg wiped his screen. 9.20am on 21 December. The days were getting longer.

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