I remember Grandpa.
Grandpa was the kind of man,
That could tell you one story,
Or ask you one question
And all of a sudden
Everything you ever knew,
Or thought you knew would change

So many times with Grandpa,
From the age two and upwards,
He took me under his wing—much to my mother’s disapproval.
Grandparents aren’t supposed,
To be biased,
Or pick favorites,
But my Grandpa succeeded in getting away with both in the end.

Every summer,
I would spend the long stretch of eight weeks with him
And look back
Wondering where all the time had gone.
Although he never said it,
I always knew he was pleased to see me.
Whenever we pulled up to his ranch,
My sisters would slowly slump down on either side of me,
Slinking away
Until their heads were no longer visible through the car window.
They would sit there.
Pushing back their cuticles
And narrowing their lips into a line so thin
That my mom claimed could only be achieved with practice.
I would have to clumsily climb over my sisters,
Who always took some persuading,
To get out the car,
And then I would squint through the sun’s stretching rays
Until I spotted Grandpa,
Sitting there on the porch
Listening to the radio
With his little dog, Charlie, by his feet.
“Charlie”, I would call.
But Charlie never budged.
Charlie’s loyalties were very clear.
They were to Grandpa
And only Grandpa.

I learned that with Grandpa
You would find answers to the questions
That you didn’t even think to ask.  
Like the time he prodded me with his stick
And told me to stand still
And I stood there, confused.
Grandpa, I AM standing still.
And he chuckled and told me I was still moving
And that no matter
How hard I tried to stand still,
I would still be moving.
It wasn’t until fourth grade,
That his point was proven,
I was moving.
According to my fourth grade science teacher,
The Earth was rotating, spinning
And we were all moving,
At a rate of one thousand miles per hour
Whether we liked it or not.
Apparently just because everything looked still and motionless
Didn’t necessarily mean that it was.

Grandpa had lived and fought through two world wars,
Spent three decades keeping history alive as a teacher
And even outlived his first wife
But he didn’t walk around wounded like you’d expect.
I always felt kind of honored
That I was the one that got so much time with him.

Every where we went,
His golden dog
Was always two steps ahead of us,
Pacing along in a little green jacket.
Grandpa would take me to museums,
Exhibits
And even art galleries,
Despite my initial lack of interest in everything abstract.
I detested art,
Especially abstract art.
It always seemed like an excuse
For lack of skill,
In my opinion.
It was the name given to the paintings
That didn’t deserve any other name.
I never really thought it was fair
That one person could spend hours
Perfecting a painting,
Making it look like something real,
And another person could take five seconds
Splattering some paint across a canvas,
Making it look entirely unreal
And that somehow
They would both end up
Earning the title of “art”.
The latter,
Earning the special title of
“Abstract art”



However, after a visit with Grandpa,
My thoughts on “abstract art”
Became somewhat enlightened.
We visited a specific section of the gallery,
Me reluctantly dragging my feet after him,
And his obedient little dog towards the
“Modern Art” section,
His hands slowly traced over,
The little bumps,
Etched on the information display.

“Before you say anything”,
He told me.
“Just Look”

I stood there,
Staring at the thing.
Look at what?
I thought,
There is nothing to look at.

“Just wait,
Give it a chance”,
He said,
Almost
As if
He’d read my thoughts.

I closed my eyes,
Then quickly opened them.
I waited,
Taking in the chaos of the colors,
The mismatched design,
That made no sense.

Then it popped.
It was slow at first,
Like the colors were taking their time to shift into sense,
But then some lines began to fade
And others became bolder,
And all of a sudden,
Staring right at me,
Was the outline of a very distinctive face.
No one was looking at this painting.
It was one of those paintings,
That everyone politely glanced over,
Feigning hasty appreciation of,
But not actually stopping to look at.
At a first glance,
It was ugly on the eyes,
But if you spent some time on it,
Something better emerged.


It wasn’t,
Until I was ten,
That I finally figured it out –
Grandpa was blind.

I had been angry at first,
Feeling somehow mislead,
As if he had claimed,
To be someone,
He wasn’t.
How had I not noticed?
That
No one ever petted Grandpa’s dog,
That he had never quite looked me directly in the eye,
That his dog was allowed even in art galleries
And that he never drove us anywhere,
We always walked.

Initially,
I had felt small and betrayed ,
For not picking up on such a flaw,
But it was my mother who helped me,
To understand in the end.

My two older sisters,
Had known from a young age,
She said
And they saw him,
As blind,
And despite their warm hearts
And good intentions,
Had never been quite able to see past it.
My mother told me,
It was I
Who saw my grandfather
For the man he was,
Not my sisters.
I realized my anger,
Had all been in vain.
I had not noticed he was blind,
Because in a sense,
He was no more blind,
Than the rest of us.


Sometimes,
I even wonder
If seeing with eyes
Sometimes blinds us,
And limits our vision
Only to the appearance of things,
Only a scratch on the surface,
A quick call of judgment
And that maybe seeing without eyes
Is really what brought Grandpa,
So much closer to reality.

~ JL