Andy Warhol "Butterfly" (1983), oil on canvasOne foot.
My grandfather and I are the best of friends. He comes over my house every weekend and cooks the whole family dinner. Afterwards, he plays with all the grandchildren, telling us stories and playing made-up games, but I know I’m the favorite. I’m the youngest of the grandchildren, the baby of the family. I’m the one he lets ride on his shoulders and get away with candy before dinner. He’s the one that doesn’t complain when I force him to play with dolls or tea sets.
Two feet.
Lasagna. He’s famous for it. Every weekend we have our grandfather’s famous three-layer lasagna. When I got older he made it a point to teach me the recipe. It’s the pasta that makes it so good. Grandpa would brag that his pasta was better than all the pasta in Italy. He would embellish the exaggeration with a thick, fake Italian accent just because he knew it would always make me laugh. When the family started to get older, Grandpa always had me help make the weekend lasagna. Out of the whole family I was the only one who he trusted with the recipe.
Three feet.
When I turned ten, he bought me a hand made porcelain tea set. To date it’s the best gift I’ve ever received. It was decorated with butterflies, which he said were his favorite; I didn’t ask why. Grandpa told me it was made in France- his homeland. For the next few months I insisted that he teach me everything about France, from the culture to the language and everything in between. At the end of every tea party I would be able to say certain phrases, enough so I could have a small chat with my grandfather and then wish him au revoir. It wasn’t until I was older that I discovered the “made in Colombia” label on the bottom of the saucers.
Four feet.
As I got older, and so did he, the stories my grandfather told were less like fables and more stories of his life. He told me about his life as a boy in France, growing up with ten other brothers and sisters. He told me about how he joined the army at sixteen, which eventually led him to immigrate to America. He told me how he met, loved, married, and eventually lost his wife, my grandmother whom I’ve never met. He told me of not only the past but the present as well. He told tales of how he knew the answer to the final jeopardy and of the jerk who cut him off on the drive over; tales of meaningless nonsense that we would bond over for days to come.
Five Feet
During my high school years, my grandfather would come over less often. Our lasagna dinners would be more sporadic and the stories would become shorter and shorter. Despite this, I always still felt that special bond that I had grown up with. Even though I didn’t see him every week, when we finally saw each other it was as if we had never left. Grandpa still favored me over my siblings, and I was still the only one who got to help him make his famous lasagna. My best friend was still the always there for me.
Six feet.
The call came late at night, and at first I couldn’t understand what my mother was saying between her tears. I’m still not quite over the shock. The only thing that seemed to have registered since that night was the funeral date. Now, as the first shovels of dirt are being thrown onto the casket, everything hits me. I’ve lost my best friend, the person who knows almost everything about me, the one who gets me. My mothers can’t stop crying and I know I should have brought more tissues. At least he died peacefully.
I can’t stand looking at the cemetery plot anymore. To keep from completely losing it I focus my eyes on the tombstone. Its granite, at least I think, it’s strong and distinguished, just like him. Slowly another object comes into my line of vision. As the last bit of dirt falls onto the grave, a butterfly gracefully lands on the tombstone, directly in my line of vision. The butterfly stays there as my mother reads her prayers and my siblings place various types of flowers at the foot of the tombstone. As my family begins to compose themselves, we start to get back into our cars to leave the cemetery for good. Our car begins to roll down the narrow rode, the forecasted rain begins to spit outside, and as I look out at the window the butterfly stays resting on my grandfather’s, my best friend’s, tombstone.
My grandfather and I are the best of friends. He comes over my house every weekend and cooks the whole family dinner. Afterwards, he plays with all the grandchildren, telling us stories and playing made-up games, but I know I’m the favorite. I’m the youngest of the grandchildren, the baby of the family. I’m the one he lets ride on his shoulders and get away with candy before dinner. He’s the one that doesn’t complain when I force him to play with dolls or tea sets.
Two feet.
Lasagna. He’s famous for it. Every weekend we have our grandfather’s famous three-layer lasagna. When I got older he made it a point to teach me the recipe. It’s the pasta that makes it so good. Grandpa would brag that his pasta was better than all the pasta in Italy. He would embellish the exaggeration with a thick, fake Italian accent just because he knew it would always make me laugh. When the family started to get older, Grandpa always had me help make the weekend lasagna. Out of the whole family I was the only one who he trusted with the recipe.
Three feet.
When I turned ten, he bought me a hand made porcelain tea set. To date it’s the best gift I’ve ever received. It was decorated with butterflies, which he said were his favorite; I didn’t ask why. Grandpa told me it was made in France- his homeland. For the next few months I insisted that he teach me everything about France, from the culture to the language and everything in between. At the end of every tea party I would be able to say certain phrases, enough so I could have a small chat with my grandfather and then wish him au revoir. It wasn’t until I was older that I discovered the “made in Colombia” label on the bottom of the saucers.
Four feet.
As I got older, and so did he, the stories my grandfather told were less like fables and more stories of his life. He told me about his life as a boy in France, growing up with ten other brothers and sisters. He told me about how he joined the army at sixteen, which eventually led him to immigrate to America. He told me how he met, loved, married, and eventually lost his wife, my grandmother whom I’ve never met. He told me of not only the past but the present as well. He told tales of how he knew the answer to the final jeopardy and of the jerk who cut him off on the drive over; tales of meaningless nonsense that we would bond over for days to come.
Five Feet
During my high school years, my grandfather would come over less often. Our lasagna dinners would be more sporadic and the stories would become shorter and shorter. Despite this, I always still felt that special bond that I had grown up with. Even though I didn’t see him every week, when we finally saw each other it was as if we had never left. Grandpa still favored me over my siblings, and I was still the only one who got to help him make his famous lasagna. My best friend was still the always there for me.
Six feet.
The call came late at night, and at first I couldn’t understand what my mother was saying between her tears. I’m still not quite over the shock. The only thing that seemed to have registered since that night was the funeral date. Now, as the first shovels of dirt are being thrown onto the casket, everything hits me. I’ve lost my best friend, the person who knows almost everything about me, the one who gets me. My mothers can’t stop crying and I know I should have brought more tissues. At least he died peacefully.
I can’t stand looking at the cemetery plot anymore. To keep from completely losing it I focus my eyes on the tombstone. Its granite, at least I think, it’s strong and distinguished, just like him. Slowly another object comes into my line of vision. As the last bit of dirt falls onto the grave, a butterfly gracefully lands on the tombstone, directly in my line of vision. The butterfly stays there as my mother reads her prayers and my siblings place various types of flowers at the foot of the tombstone. As my family begins to compose themselves, we start to get back into our cars to leave the cemetery for good. Our car begins to roll down the narrow rode, the forecasted rain begins to spit outside, and as I look out at the window the butterfly stays resting on my grandfather’s, my best friend’s, tombstone.
That's beautiful. I'm glad you have such lovely memories of him :)
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