Today it is my turn to take care of Grandpa.
He sits at a table next to a window. Illuminating,
the frame faces east towards the mountains.
Quietly he looks out while I prepare cobbed
corn for a snack. Grandpa doesn't eat much
but he's always liked corn. I butter two halves,
place them on two plates then bring them over
setting one in front of him. I sit. Nothing is said.
I think I notice a hint of smile as he looks at his
corn. Picking the gilded rind up he takes a little
bite. I eat slow, like him. It is silent, except
that the quiet activity of our eating is like a
secret conversation. I don't want to disturb our
sacred moment. I think he has to have finished
because he sets his cob down. Those remaining
kernels are flat and wrinkled and he's gone to
looking out the window again. Green mountain.
I pick up our plates and move to the kitchen while
thinking of putting another cob on. Instead, I
hesitate in a gaze directed at the few remaining
untouched cylinders in a plastic bag I seal. I
put them away. As the dishwater fills I glance
at Grandpa, without movement, without sound he
just gazes out. It must be his lover he dreams of,
his wife who passed on? The noise of the faucet
while I brood over how to tell him that I really
admire him -- I should have been closer as an
adult. Now, I am a proud to be his grandson.
The sink now full, I step into another room and
have a moment. With Grandpa here life's whole
pace is tangible and when I return I see there is
a mostly eaten cob in the pearl white dish rack. It
rests neatly against the sidewall. I look to Grandpa
who looks back at me. We both smile. I with tears
in my eyes.
He sits at a table next to a window. Illuminating,
the frame faces east towards the mountains.
Quietly he looks out while I prepare cobbed
corn for a snack. Grandpa doesn't eat much
but he's always liked corn. I butter two halves,
place them on two plates then bring them over
setting one in front of him. I sit. Nothing is said.
I think I notice a hint of smile as he looks at his
corn. Picking the gilded rind up he takes a little
bite. I eat slow, like him. It is silent, except
that the quiet activity of our eating is like a
secret conversation. I don't want to disturb our
sacred moment. I think he has to have finished
because he sets his cob down. Those remaining
kernels are flat and wrinkled and he's gone to
looking out the window again. Green mountain.
I pick up our plates and move to the kitchen while
thinking of putting another cob on. Instead, I
hesitate in a gaze directed at the few remaining
untouched cylinders in a plastic bag I seal. I
put them away. As the dishwater fills I glance
at Grandpa, without movement, without sound he
just gazes out. It must be his lover he dreams of,
his wife who passed on? The noise of the faucet
while I brood over how to tell him that I really
admire him -- I should have been closer as an
adult. Now, I am a proud to be his grandson.
The sink now full, I step into another room and
have a moment. With Grandpa here life's whole
pace is tangible and when I return I see there is
a mostly eaten cob in the pearl white dish rack. It
rests neatly against the sidewall. I look to Grandpa
who looks back at me. We both smile. I with tears
in my eyes.