My Grandfather's Garden

It’s hard to believe, now more than a decade after his death, that I didn’t cry at my own grandfather’s funeral.  I remember trying to force the moisture from my eyes on several occasions with no luck whatsoever. The pain I felt was distant, like a tiny tinge of detached grief stemming purely from the back of my adolescent imagination.  It all being a complete contrast to my maternal grandfather's funeral years later, where I cried for days on end, considering it one of the worst days of my life.  

My paternal grandfather though, was a man of little emotion.  A man who would relentlessly criticize my father for being too warm and sentimental. His life lived with a tough hand and stubborn demeanor, driving my grandmother to divorce while making it clear to my father that he would never be good enough. 

In recalling the years I did have with him, I can honestly say that his presence was neither missed nor felt.  He was just this shadow of a person who seemed to blend into the blur of childhood.  Thinking back, my only clear memory of him begins with the smell of his cigar and that very moment when its scorching end imprinted its fiery force into my tiny hand.  I also remember him being so sorry for what he had done, never imagining the literal mark that moment would forever leave.  

So sadly, for most of my life thus far, I've been carrying around a terrible image of this man.  An image that made me feel angry, numb, and sometimes sad. But, with living comes wisdom, and one day, as his face randomly entered my mind, I suddenly realized that he had indeed tried to open up to me and to all of us.  Unfortunately, nobody had wanted to see.   As long as I could remember, he, with the help of my grandmother, had always kept an enormous garden filled with various vegetables.  Although my grandmother had left him years before, he continued to maintain this garden, just one person growing for many.  A short time before he died though, he began leaving fresh vegetables from this garden on my parent's front step.   In looking back, I realize now that in the end, even though he could never put it into words, my grandfather had finally found a way to say I love you.