Memories of My Grandfather

I am ten years old and searching for red amongst the tangled green vines of my grandfather’s tomato plant. It’s afternoon on a Saturday and the yard is filled with sunlight. Had I looked up I would have seen my Nana standing at the sink below the window in the kitchen, washing vegetables to be eaten with the grilled cheese she is making for lunch. I love my grandpa’s house because he always has the much better tasting processed cheese my mother never buys. The door opens and we are called in, I take the hand of my sister who has befriended an ant on the level stone of the pathway and run inside. I bury myself in the strong arms of my grandpa, inhaling the stale scent of the cigarettes he hasn’t smoked since before I was born.

After lunch we sit next to him on his flower patterned couch and chatter as he watches the news. We chew on creamy toffees taken from the shelf below his outdated television set, I read the cards that sit on the mantle, collected as time passes. Later we follow our grandpa into his garage, intrigued by old bird cages and golf clubs. He drives to a playground where my sister and I yell and run as our grandparents watch us, encouraging our laughter.

I am twelve years old a year and a half later and I do not cry when my mother tells us of shadows and lung cancer. She sits between my sister and I, a limp arm around each of us. I lack expression and do not know why. I remember bouncing on his water bed watching cartoons as he sat eating cheesies in his brown arm chair. I remember fish on the wall in his bathroom and his undersized and beautiful tree at Christmas. I remember big meals and painted Easter eggs. I am young and I do not understand death. My sister, three years younger, is in tears and I cannot join her.

We sit in near silence and the sun reflects off the wall into my eyes. We go our separate ways, a reassuring hug from mom to help us sleep. I think I feel guilt but I do not know guilt until we visit after surgery. Visit oxygen tubes and wheelchairs that scare me more than the idea of death. I bring him canned chocolate shake, with orders from Nana to make him drink all of it, and I try to hide myself in cartoon lines and woollen blankets. Try not to hear hushed voices from the kitchen. Try not to admit that I am scared.

I do not cry mid June when news of flat lining heart monitors reaches me. I am dressed in blue for the funeral, confused because I’m not to wear black. There is no casket and I still question death. Though I accept it, sprinkling ashes over daffodil buds under tall trees, I do not believe in loss.