Grandfather and I
One evening there was only grass in the patch behind the house. The next morning it was filled with toadstools. Grandfather arrived in our living room like that. He sprang up through the floorboards one afternoon and was instantly established.
"This is your grandfather, Bill. He's going to be staying with us for a while." Mother turned her head to my father to stress that final part. "You're not to disturb him."
It must have been his balance that was not to be disturbed, caught so neatly as it was. A rug was wrapped from his waist, along his legs, to fall folded upon the floor. Each fold rose and dropped, forming bellows to rock the man. School had just loosened the gem of the caterpillar's transfiguration into my mind. Now it seemed such a miracle was to happen in my own home over grandfather's cocooned legs. I listened through the crackle of the fire for the gentle, crisper sounds of grandfather's withered skin peeling from his legs to reveal a shining youthful beauty they once had.
Nature was being cheated of all her rules to magic the process into reality. Curtains were drawn against the day, and a fire blew out its flames and heat beside grandfather's rocking chair. "We have to keep your grandfather warm," my mother had told me. I wondered how long skin took to dry. The fire was already challenged by the sun, which slid its own distinct patterns through the curtains as summer approached.
The top half of grandfather did not change at all. Much of him was always covered of course, swathed in jackets, pullovers, mittens and scarves; but his head was ever present on top. Silver hair was sleeked back across his skull, but the head was dominated by enormous sunglasses, two black discs that trickled occasional tears to collect inside the bristle on his cheeks. The whole face was confused by a smile that never left it.
"Why doesn't
grandfather ever talk?"
I whispered the question to my mother in the kitchen, where we spent much
of our time now. The parlour had been set aside as the old man's bedroom
to save carrying him up the stairs, and the fire roared its presence in
the living-room so effectively any visits but for a cursory glance proved
unbearable.
"He doesn't need to," mother replied, quietly, suppressing any emotions she might have felt on the matter. I kept the remark for consideration. I had never thought of talking as being a necessity.
"What does he do then?"
"He thinks." My puzzled prompted further explanation without my asking. "He just plays through all the memories he's got, I should think. You must remember he's a very old man."
"What memories are they?"
"Really, Billy. How do you expect me to be able to answer that? That's something only your grandfather can tell you." The conversation was snapped to a close as mother shoved her chair back and stood up to find some new business. It was one of those arguments designed to cheat me of a resolution. Only grandfather could tell me, while he did nothing but think.