My grandfather was an amazing man. During his seventy-two years of life, he accomplished so much and never once let his family life slip. He owned his own construction company and would work twelve-hour days, still finding time for the important people in his life. Him and my grandmother had a forty-four-year marriage and he doted on her every single day until the day she died. No matter what me and my sister were into, he did everything in his power to nurture our hobbies, and every day I do whatever I can to be like him. My grandfather is my hero and all I want out of this life is to know he’s looking down on me, proud.
When me and my sister were around eight, we got heavy into art. Our parents went out and purchased us packs and packs of the multicolored sidewalk chalk. We were ecstatic. We would get home from school and immediately we would be in the driveway. We would draw until we just couldn’t take the heat any longer and since we live in state that sees very little rainfall, our father would have to spray off the driveway so we could have a fresh canvas. As kids, this part always made me a little sad. All that time, all that effort, washed away like it meant nothing.
Now, like most kids back then, we would spend time at our grandparents’ house whenever our parents had to work overtime or they just wanted to be rid of us for a weekend to spend time together. This was a weekend just like any other. Mom and dad packed up our weekend clothes and our sidewalk chalk, and dropped us of with grandma and grandpa. But pulling up to their house me and my sister realized, almost simultaneously, that we had overlooked one thing. Grandma and grandpa lived on a dirt road and had a gravel driveway. Which meant there would be no art for us all weekend long. Our grandparents did the best they could. They got out large papers and colored pencils for us to draw with, but it just wasn’t the same. You know how kids hyper focus on one thing and just can’t let it go. That was me and my sister.
Throughout the weekend they tried their best, but grandpa could tell that it wasn’t enough for us and apologized quite a few times. I told him that it was fine, and we still loved spending time with them. But just like grandpa could tell that we were upset, I could tell that he was feeling like he had disappointed his grandchildren.
Mom and dad picked us up that Sunday evening and we were back to sidewalk chalk art that Monday morning. Seeing as that Monday was the start of summer vacation, we had a solid two weeks of driveway murals spending countless hours in the hot sun.
Then, on week three, my parents decided to take me and my sister back to my grandparents for a weekend and, while I was excited, I wasn’t super happy about not having my sidewalk chalk for another two and a half days. But I loved my grandpa, and I was going to power through it. My parents packed up our bags again, and off we went. Through those back roads, onto that dirt road, and onto that gravel driveway. Except this time, there was a four-foot by eight-foot wall made of solid concrete blocks, directly next to my grandfather’s house. My parents looked back at me and my sister, wide eyed in the back seat and just said, “your grandfather went to the city and asked if he needed a permit to build a wall on his property. Apparently, anything under four feet is good to go.”
I opened up the car door and ran towards that wall. It was the greatest thing I had ever seen and over the course of the next seven or so years we filled up that wall time and time again. As I said before, we get very little rain here and instead of just washing away our artwork when it was full, grandpa would just add more blocks. In our time we probably made it a little over three quarters of the way around his house. But, getting very little rain doesn’t mean we don’t get any. There would be misting showers a couple times a year but it never seemed to hurt our murals. I’m pretty sure grandpa went out there and filled back in whatever went missing. That’s just the kind of man he was.
But here we are in 2022 and I just buried my favorite person in the world. My sister is off in New York living it up and my parents refuse to leave the house still because of covid, so it’s up to me to go through my grandpas’ belongings. It’s fine seeing as he left the house to me anyway, but a little help never hurt. Seeing all these pictures and the fact the house hasn’t changed a bit since I was eight years old hit me right in the nostalgia.
Do you ever just bury things? Unwanted feelings that just kind of, sprout up? I drank about half a bottle of Jack last night and let the anger of losing him take over. I took a sledgehammer to that wall. I got through three blocks before I even noticed the body parts. Each of the blocks held a different one. I found a hand and two feet. Couldn’t be the same person because they were two different colors. But my grandfather is still my hero…. and all I want out of this life is to know he’s looking down, proud.