Grandpa

On April 30, 2003, my Grandpa died. Spring had broken through the thick winter, and only small heaps of snow remained, hidden under the shade of trees, melting with each ray of sun that poked through the needles and branches--a slow disintegration, quiet and unobserved. My Grandpa too, began to disappear, and my hope for him was measured by his body weight. Each pound that he kept or gained was another day of life.

The scattered snow didn’t fool us. We knew winter was over.

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    At noon the day my Grandpa died my dad dropped off my lunch at school. I asked how Grandpa was doing. “Not well,” he said. I had heard many times that year that my Grandpa was not doing well. Each time though, a few days later, he would be doing better. This time, better never came. My Grandpa was dead when my dad came by the school, but I wasn’t told until the end of the day. I had kissed a girl after my dad dropped off my lunch. I’m thankful he didn’t tell me the truth. It would have marred the kiss with grief, or prevented it from happening at all.
    No one close to me had died before. The etiquette was unclear. I thought I should be alone, so when I got home I went into the basement, sat down on a couch, stared at the carpet, and then at the TV. I tried to cry but I didn’t know how. I could understand the loss, but couldn’t feel it. When I came back upstairs I looked out the window and saw my mom walking up the driveway. Grandpa was her dad. She tread softly on the concrete--uncertain, as if she didn’t want to get anywhere, as if she had nowhere to go. Nothing offered distraction. No chair to relax in. No taste to the food. The house provided no comfort. In grief, everywhere feels the same. Everywhere, there is a lack. 

I went to a birthday party that night, but I don’t remember anything about it. Just staring at the black TV screen and seeing nothing but my reflection. Searching for sadness. Angry at the lack. Relieved, too.

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    My Grandpa was tall with wiry muscles. He loved to garden, and he hated squirrels. He’d lure them into a cage with peanut butter and drop them off on the highway, or squirt them with a high pressure water gun. Whenever my family visited he’d give me and my siblings a caramel Werther’s candy and I always looked forward to it. Sucking on the candy made it last longer, but crushing them filled my mouth with the taste. I never had the patience to enjoy their full life.
    My family moved into my Grandparent’s house after Grandpa died. We keep a dish of Werther’s candies on the desk in the front hall as a reminder and a tribute. My friends fill their pockets. I never take one. They were special when he gave them to me. Now they’re too available.
    When we first moved, the wallpaper in the house was a lustrous silver and gold, patterned with Egyptian hieroglyphics. In the den were cabinets of brass animals from trips around the world. Elephants, birds, and bulls. Years passed before I noticed the armadillos having sex. In the center of the living room is a wooden table with a glass top. Underneath, three dimensional and whittled from wood, two iron clad female warriors ride with knives and bows through a town lined with trees. The main floor of the house looked like an antique shop.
    The most important items in the living room were a velvet, olive green couch, and a grandfather clock. My Grandpa and I would sit on the couch and talk about hockey. By moving my fingers across the nap of the material I would write my name on the couch, erase it, and then write it again. Easy to bring back, but easier to wipe away. My mom told me that my Grandpa would do the same thing. The grandfather clock worked back then.
    We waited a few years before we stripped away the wallpaper and got rid of the couch. The walls are brown now and don’t glitter in the sun. The new couch is a darker green and made of leather. There are no hidden shades or secret colours, no places to write your name. We kept the grandfather clock. Sometimes it works and the bells chime on the hour. Usually it just stares with both hands stuck at twelve, as if posing in eternal prayer. 

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    Vestiges of a life. The way he looked. The way the house looked. Conversations all too vague in their details. Like the hidden snow and velvet nap, what I can recall returns only to disappear again.