Grandpa's Box

A Story by Sarah

I remember him sprawled under the Christmas tree, tinkering with the model train so that Christmas could be just perfect.

I remember when he cooked pancakes with bread mix - that was gross.

I remember watching Black Beauty, Mary Poppins, and Rudy " the classics as he would refer to them.

I remember the day his skin hung loosely from his frail frame. He was once strong and full, but now it was almost as if I could see him weakening by the moment. I sat in the chair close to him. I always sat close. We didn’t have to talk, often times we sat in silence. My mom used to tell me that when you are truly connected to someone, there is a comfortable silence. My Grandpa and I always sat in comfortable silence.

“I have something for you,” He turned his body towards me, with enormous effort. He directed me to retrieve a box from under my grandparents bed.

Curious, I crawled under their bed, catching a whiff of my Grandpa’s cologne as I rummaged through the packages and luggage. I found an old cardboard box that didn’t go along with the old gift-wrap and Christmas decorations. My arms awkwardly hugged the frame as I wandered back into the room. My Grandpa’s body looked so small in the large armchair, it almost looked as if he would get lost in the sea of folds of his blue knit blanket.

He threw his arm in front of his face to field a series of croupy coughs. My stomach turned, I always wondered if he was in pain. “It’s… for… you.” He wheezed.

My eyes shifted from my grandpa to the box in my arms, what is this? I wrapped my fingers around the lid of the box and pulled the top from the body. It held tight, the two had been connected for many years. I pulled the lid back, exposing a myriad of aged newspaper clippings and papers.

I delicately examined a top clipping. A black and white image of a determined-looking man stared back at me. A full article followed, but at the end, the by line read: By Patrick Kenny.

.” He reached over and laced his weak fingers through mine. After seventeen years of squeezing and holding me tight, I gripped his limp palm with enough force for both of us.

He didn’t have to explain anything. The gift said enough, this was a box of my family’s achievements, hopes, and dreams. My arm swam through the box and fished out a bound document: a manuscript, a dream to be achieved.

At that moment, the sound of my sister playing the background faded away, the white noise in the kitchen dissolved, and even my Grandpa’s labored breathing silenced. I could sense my grandpa’s sadness that he would not see my wedding, graduation, or kids; but his excitement for my potential and hope for my life ahead. I knew I was proud to be related to someone so loving, supportive, and inspiring. He had lived a full life and had love and experiences to show for it. I gripped his hand tighter, almost as if I could absorb every last bit of what I loved about my Grandpa.

Years later, I have a box of memories documenting lives of generations before me. It’s a reminder of my ancestors, but a statement of hope for my life ahead. Even though he is no longer with me in flesh, I know that he is with me, encouraging my hopes and dreams.