Letters from the Heart

My grandfather was wonderful. This was an opportunity to let him know how I feel about him

TO MY FATHER’S FATHER

Dear Grandpa,

Almost every time I think of you, three images flash to mind in rapid succession. The first is in your living room; you are sitting in front of me in your big green leather chair, your favorite, one foot on the matching hassock. My parents and Grandmother are in the dining room, only my sisters and I are in the dimly-lit apricot-colored room with you. Behind me, above the flowered couch, the sunset forest painting, contrasting the peach-colored walls with its rich, dark hues, and embellished by the thick gold frame surrounding it, a frame both my sisters and I believed was so heavy we would not sit on the couch for fear it would fall on us. You are playing that game you used to do which terrorized us so delightfully: you would stretch out your leg, put one of us on your ankle, then, holding our hands, lean back and raise your foot up until we were high in the air, almost to the ceiling, then slowly lower your leg a little, raise it up, up and down, while we screamed with exhilaration and fear of falling. We loved it. I am looking at you, watching you, at the same time you are giving me a ride.

Next you are comforting me, your concern obvious, after the powerful crash which was heard through the three floors of your glass shop, above the loud sanders and glass cutters and hammers, when the overfilled file cabinet which I was playing with, to display to my imaginary audience my immense strength (for a six-year-old) by my opening, single-handed, each of the immense drawers packed chock-full of folders and papers, heavy even for a grown-up. The secret of my great strength lie in the well-oiled, sturdy wheels which supported the drawers during their smooth glide out from their custom holes, smooth and seamless as they traversed their horizontal journey. Having discovered how easily they opened, entertaining myself with patterns of open and shut compartments, I made the mistake of sliding all five drawers out simultaneously. For a moment, but only a moment, I didn’t notice the danger; then, in spite of the thick steel casing of the cabinet seat, the weight of the drawers pulled the cabinet forward. I was not in front at the time, but off to the side, to better view each arrangement of opened and closed compartments; when I realized what was happening I quickly tried to shut one drawer, but it was too little, too late. Everyone came running at the crash, some from two floors away. I was frightened, not because I was in danger, but because the cabinet was down, and the items on top where everywhere. The glass thermos was broken, I knew from the sound it made when it crashed. I was terrified of the yelling and spanking I would get. But when you arrived, instead of yelling at me, you took me aside, your eyes filled with compassion. You could have been hurt, you told me quietly. Three men were lifting up the cabinet, putting it right. “I’m sorry the thermos broke,” I said. You, with only love in your eyes, said “Don’t worry about it,” and whether you said it or not it was obvious the only thing you cared about was me.

The next thing I see is not you but me, walking down the street a few homes away from my own. Although it is a school day, I am home. There is silence everywhere, not just from the missing children’s play, but the silence penetrates everywhere and everything, beyond the street into the neighboring blocks, beyond those into the woods and parks beyond; a thick, dense silence which permeated even through the surrounding houses, into their kitchens and living rooms, filling my entire world with its presence. The next day, a Wednesday, returned to my first grade class, I see myself standing. The teacher has just asked me, kindly, with no suspicion, to tell the class where I was yesterday. I never hear my answer exactly as I said it, but the feeling is always the same: my grandfather passed away, and yesterday was his funeral.

We love you always.

David

© David Adelson. All rights reserved. These "Letters from the Heart" were previously published as a column in the Quincy Herald-Whig in Illinois.