Leo's Journey

Slowly, I feel myself drift out of the fog of sleep that I have been enjoying for the last eight hours. Rolling over, my eyes still closed, I listen. And wait. Inhaling the faint musty smell of the blankets that are not my own. Lightly catching the strangely comforting smell of cigarette smoke in the sheets. Contentment swells my ten-year old soul. Again, I wait...and listen... Ahh... there it is, the telltale sound that I have been waiting for.

My lips spread in to a grin and my eyes fly open as I toss back the covers. Moving before my feet even hit the ground, I open the spare bedroom door off of the living room in my grandparents’ modest one level bungalow. Passing through the room with it's faux wood panelled walls and faded print carpet I round the corner and in to the kitchen.

As I step onto the worn linoleum, I see it. The noise maker of my morning. I watch as the spoon slowly stops stirring the coffee, no longer tinkling against the sides of his earthenware mug. Two final tap-taps to release any stray drops and the little spoon is gently set down on the old Formica table. I hear a slight rustle of paper and realize that he knows I am there. Dragging my eyes away from the spoon, I look towards the raised, open newspaper. One side of it is bent in so that the wizened, smiling face can get a good look at me.

I see the leathery skin and catch a slight glare off of his wide, wire-rimmed glasses. His grey hair is thinning and in need of a trim, but the smile on his lips takes my attention away. In his standard plaid flannel shirt, blue today and worn green workpants my grandfather is enjoying his morning ritual of coffee; warm Shredded Wheat with cold milk, brown sugar and the newspaper. I walk over to the table, and climb up onto one of the cold vinyl chairs, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

"G'mornin', Grampa." I settle in to my chair.

"Well...you're up, are ya'? I was wonderin' if you were gonna stay in bed all day, like your gramma." He peers at me over his glasses and aims his thumb at my Grandma's closed bedroom door.

"Nope...I like the getting up early with you." I smile shyly. Outright affection didn't come easily for me, even as a child.

He finishes his Shredded Wheat and gets up to take his bowl to the sink.

"Well, you better get some breakfast. I'm almost ready to go out in the back field and do some work. If you hurry, you can come with me."

I rush to get my own Shredded Wheat, after he's re-boiled the kettle for me. I never would have thought that I would like this kind of cereal until I had it with my Grandpa. He had it the best way. While I am eating he smokes an endless stream of cigarettes and tells me stories and jokes that I have heard a hundred times. Though every time they get better. It never occurs to me that I should commit them to memory so that one day I can pass them on to my own children or grandchildren. I sit in awe and listen with unfeigned interest, anticipating and laughing when it is required. Delighting him with my own entertainment at his old stories and silly sense of humour.

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Slowly, I bring myself out of my reverie, my eyes unfogging of their own accord. I have missed what was being said for the last ten minutes...unsure as to who was speaking and what they were saying. Who was that man up front anyways? I vaguely remember him asking us to stop for a minute and think of our most favourite memory of Leo. Looking around, I see my cousin in tears. My Grandma has stopped for the moment, but the telltale redness of her face and puffiness in her eyes tells me that at any moment she, too, could break down again.

My heart is full with love for the man being spoken about. As a child, I always felt that he and I were always the closest. And in my childhood heart and mind, thinking that he loved me the most out of all of us. Yet, I sit here, listening to this stranger speak, watching those around me show their emotion freely, watching it course down their cheeks and all I feel is a twinge of anger at this man speaking of my wonderful Grandfather, knowing that he hadn't even met him. A bit jealous of everyone else's ability to cry for the man that I was certain I loved the most.

I should be up there telling stories about him. Or better, telling his stories to everyone so that they, too, can fill their hearts with the memories and thoughts of the most wonderful man I knew.

The thought passes through my mind as quickly as it enters. These are my memories, not theirs and I am suddenly greedy. I want to keep these to myself. If I share them with the world, then they will soon fade and I may forget them. I fear that they will get duller the more frequently they are told.

I did something that day that I will probably never have the desire to do again in my life. Unsure, I asked my Grandma if I could help to carry my Grandpa' casket to his final resting place. She looked at me in surprise and said that I certainly could. And so, beside my Uncle and my male cousins, I went to the casket and lifted his weight up. Together, we carried him to his chosen resting place.


I worry that I did not cry openly at my grandfather’s funeral. It seemed that almost everyone else was. Do they think that I loved him less? Or that I didn't care that he had died? There was so much that I wanted to tell my Grampa before he died, but I knew that I couldn't. I wanted to be sure that he knew he was wonderful and that I loved him more than anyone could. My now grown heart still filling with swelling love and pride for him.

In the end, I could have visited him every day, to tell him all of these wonderful memories and feelings that I had for him. Every day, I would have had to come back and start by telling him who I was and how he knew me.

"Yes, Grampa...I am Dolores' youngest...Stacy. I'm your Granddaughter. Yes, my Mom is your daughter..."

I would have had to look at the confusion in his eyes. Him knowing that he should recognize me and know who I was, but didn't. A trickle of memory there and then gone. The thought of which I could not bear. So, I didn't go to visit him every day at the home, and I didn't go to see him before he died.

Perhaps it was selfish of me, because I couldn't imagine the thought of seeing such an important person in my mind, deteriorated into such a frail wisp of a man who had no idea who I was. In my heart, I know that I mourn my Grandfathers' passing regularly. I may not have cried at his funeral, and I may not have seen him in the home, or visited his death bed.

I suppose that I am selfish, in that the memories I have of him are the best ones I can remember. Memories of who he really was as a person, not just the shell of a memorable man.