Grandmother

He pushed the business end of his shovel into the soft earth and cursed when a splash of muddy water hit his shin. He supposed doing this right after it had rained was a terrible idea, but then again, he wasn't exactly known for his brilliant ideas. 

    Connor was digging a hole to bury a time capsule. It had been something he'd wanted to do for a while, but a "go-getter" attitude was another thing Connor wasn't known for. He procrastinated and procrastinated; with this time capsule, with his homework, with his chores, with spending time with his family… After what happened last week, he decided he wasn't okay with his passivity and complacency for life. He decided to do something about it.

    Connor loved his grandmother. His paternal grandmother, that is. His maternal grandmother was a whole other story. She was 90 years old but still more active and more productive than a lot of people he knew. She hardly left the house anymore but the amount of housework she kept herself busy with in a single day was more than some people would do in a week. Her house was immaculate, and Connor had never seen it otherwise.

    Grandmother also loved to read. If she wasn't cleaning, washing, or wiping something down, she was reading. She would read anything she could get her hands on. One time when Connor was visiting, he'd accidentally left a pile of his superhero comic books on the living room table and at his next visit, Grandmother had some comments to share about the main character and the plot of the third issue. They ended up having a two-hour conversation about it over their midday snack. 

    Grandmother ate four meals a day. Breakfast, lunch, afternoon tea, and dinner. The whole house could have turned upside down but there would still be four meals had. Grandmother was reliable, consistent, and according to Connor, the best grandma in the world.

    Which is why when Grandmother passed away two weeks ago, Connor, who lived less than 30 minutes away and had put off going to see her for last 3 months, suddenly felt all the weight and consequence of his tendency to procrastinate and let life pass by. His heart had dropped to his stomach at hearing the news and 15 days later, it still hadn't moved and neither had Connor. He spent even more time in his bedroom than before, but instead of playing games, scrolling on his phone or taking naps, he just stared and stared. He'd had a couple weeping sessions but for the most part, he just sat in his bed, in the bath, in his chair, and stared at the space in front of him.

    He thought about his grandmother. He thought about how she lived through a World War. He thought about how she had grown up with her own brothers and sisters and lived to see them pass away or lose themselves and forget everyone around them. He thought about how she raised 7 children after her husband had taken his own life. Connor sat there, and thought about all the life his grandmother had lived before him, and then thought about what he had done or achieved so far in his 19 years on the planet.

   He'd lived a pretty cushy life so far. He'd never really known hardship. He was fed, clothed, and homed; arguably much better than a lot of other people he knew. And up until his grandmother, he didn’t think he ever experienced much sorrow either. He’d never felt anything like this before. This horrible hollow, yet heavy feeling. Like he doesn’t want to live but also that he wants more than anything to live a life that would make his grandmother happy. The dull ache in his chest that never seems to go away now. That odd rush all over his body whenever his mind goes back to the moment he knew what happened.

   A few days before Connor found himself splattered in mud, wearing socks (now thoroughly soaked) and his mom’s bright orange crocs (now entirely brown), his dad had come in his door and wordlessly laid a cookie tin on his desk. He had heaved a sigh that carried the earth, and gave Connor a look that for a second connected their grief. Then he cleared his throat, gave Connor a pat on the shoulder and walked back out.

  Inside the box, Connor found a sealed envelope, a keychain with a miniature skateboard missing its half, a broken tea saucer, and a 4-generations-ago iTouch case. It was a pile of junk, by all definition. Even the severely dented, scratched metal box it was in would’ve been labelled as headed for the garbage by anyone who saw it, but to Connor, it immediately became the most precious container on earth. 

   Connor was 3 and a half years old. This was one of his clearest, earliest memories. His uncle had given him a little skateboard keychain and he adored his uncle and this gift so much, he carried it around with him everywhere. It had a dark blue deck with a C on it, so he named it Bluey, obviously. A couple months later while at his grandmother's house, he had tripped on the concrete while carrying it in his hand, and it had snapped in two. He had cried and cried. He kept it clutched in his hand and whenever he would unclench his fists and see the broken toy, a fresh wave of tears would come again. After a few hours of this cycle and when it was time to go home, his grandmother gently pried it from his hands and said, "Let me keep Bluey for a while. I'll remember him and I'll be sad now, so you can be happy." Connor went home, sniffling but comforted by the fact that Grandmother was sharing his sadness. A few weeks later during his next visit, his tears and toy all but forgotten, he spotted the broken skateboard carefully placed beside a picture of him by his grandmother's windowsill. He remembered feeling a bit sad again, but it no longer hurt like it did that day.

   Connor was 7 years old. He had wanted to surprise his grandmother by helping put the dishes away, and the tea saucer had slipped through his fingers as he lifted it to place it on the shelf. It hit him on the arm on its way down and left a good bruise, but the tears that came weren't because it hurt (which it did), because he knew that that was his grandmother's favorite set. He'd heard the story of how his late grandfather had given it to her so many times, and he knew she would be sad. Grandmother found him sitting on the kitchen floor a snotty, sniveling mess, trying to fit the broken pieces back together. She'd asked him what had happened and he explained and apologized. She knelt down next to him, gave him a hug, took the broken saucer from him and said, "I can fix it. It'll be as good as new, like nothing ever happened. So we don't have to be sad anymore, okay?" He nodded, but every time he came over and saw the teacup on the shelf missing its saucer, he would hold back tears and tell his grandmother "Sorry" again. She'd comfort him and tell him it was alright, that she'd fix it. It wasn't until years later that he realized he stopped seeing the teacup on the shelf and he never saw the saucer fixed.

   Connor was 12 years old. He finally saved up enough to buy the new iPod Touch. He spent every penny of his savings on it. His parents believed in making him save up for whatever gadget he wanted instead of just giving it to him. "That way you'll take better care of it and appreciate it more." A day before a visit to his grandmother's, he lost his iTouch. He'd had it for a total of 15 days. It was part carelessness and part crap luck. His grandmother had known how excited he was for it, and the first thing she said when he came over that day was, "I have a gift for you!" He hadn't cried about losing his iTouch at that point, but seeing his grandmother's arms welcoming him for a hug and her bright smile, he lost it. He had stepped into her arms and blubbered into her chest about the events of the day before. Hours later while looking for new batteries for the tv remote, he had opened a drawer and found a new iTouch case wrapped with a ribbon and a small card that said, "Love you forever! - Grandmother" He'd held back tears, shut the drawer, and the incident wasn't brought up again for years.

   Connor now stared at the envelope. He recognized his grandmother's script on the front, bearing his name. He wasn't sure if he wanted to open it. This would be the last thing he'd ever "hear" from his grandmother. So, he did what he always did and procrastinated. He didn't open the tin again for 3 days. He shoved it under his bed and tried not to think about it. Every time he would remember it, that wave of grief threatened to drown him. On the day of her funeral, he finally opened it. 

"My dear Connor,

    The things in this box might seem like ridiculous keepsakes, but I promise I'm not senile and I kept them for a reason. I don't know if you remember the keychain and the saucer. I'm sure you remember the iPod. I remember the look on your face on those days when you broke the keychain and the saucer, and when you lost your iPod. I remember wanting to take all your sadness from you. I remember when you broke your keychain and I told you that it'll be okay, and you said, "No it's not!"

   I kept these to give you a last, big "Ha-ha! See?" And to remind you that even though things might not feel like they'll ever be okay again, they will be. It hurt to see you hurt on those days. I kept these also to make myself feel better, like I was taking away some of your pain by keeping these things away from you, shielding you from them. They might have hurt to look at before, but I'm willing to bet they don't now. 

   I'm sorry that I'll be the reason that that look will be on your face again. I wish I could take away whatever was making you sad again, and keep it until a time that it won't hurt you anymore. But I know I can't. So I want you to keep this to remind yourself that one day, you'll be able to remember me, and it won't hurt so much anymore.

   I love you, and I believe in you.

Love,

Grandma"

   Connor could no longer hold back his tears, and he no longer tried. He cried like he never cried before. All the guilt and the grief poured out in waterfalls. He remembered one of his last conversations with her. They'd talked about the gap year he was about to take, and the bucket list he was putting together of the things he wanted to do during his year off. One of the things was a time capsule. He'd wanted to make his own after his school had done one for its 150th anniversary. He'd put in something silly, but Grandmother suggested he make his personal one more meaningful. Something he would want to see years later. He said he'd consider it. Now Connor knew exactly what he wanted to bury. He walked over to his desk and picked up the last birthday present Grandmother gave him. A wooden paperweight that read, "Productivity is never an accident. It is always the result of a commitment to excellence, intelligent planning, and focused effort. -- Paul J. Meyer"

It was a reminder of how much she always believed in his potential, despite his sitting around so much. He now had 3 months of the Nothing he did during this first break after high school graduation to make up for. He was no longer going to sit around. He was going to make Grandmother proud. The first thing to do was put this paperweight in the tin box, wrap the box up, and put it in a hole. It hurt too much to look at it again now, but just like Grandmother said, one day it won't anymore, and he can look at the stuff in this box and just remember, but it won't hurt like it did now. 

   As he dug deeper, he held on to that promise that Grandmother gave, and the promise he gave her. And he looked forward to the day that he'll dig up this box and know that both promises were fulfilled.