My grandpa likes to teach me things, like how to dock a boat, tie a line, or build a fire. How to be patient. How to find my favorite stars in the sky and to be a good traveler. He taught me how to back a jeep into a parking spot and appreciate Shakespeare. We get along famously and find joy in the sharing of knowledge. But there is one thing he taught me that I know I’m going to spend my life trying to learn.
It starts like this: we’re in his old jeep, and I’m twelve, and I’m distracted. He has this good-hearted way of believing you’re always listening to him, and I have perfected the art of getting lost inside my head. He’s talking and I’m thinking Very Important Preteen Thoughts, probably about that boy’s smile and whether it means he was flirting or just being nice, or maybe it’s the new shape of my hips and, wow, I really hate how they feel in my jeans. Then my brain-ramblings fade out and his voice fades in. He’s saying my name.
“Dani. Daniella. Did you hear me?”
“OH. Um. What did you say?”
He chuckles and bangs his hands on the steering wheel.
“I was telling you about the secrets of the cosmos and also the seventh law of the salt mine, of course.”
“Right. Okay. I’m listening.”
When he finally looks at me, he’s smiling, and the car rumbles as we climb the last hill before home. I can tell he’s going to save the seventh law for later, when I remember to listen. We’re on the last stretch of road before home and I’m sure my lessons are over for tonight. I hang my head and promise myself I’ll listen better tomorrow. My days with my favorite man in the world are numbered, after all. Soon, my least favorite man will drive him away like always.
My thoughts are interrupted on their guilt-ridden road when he glances over at me and brushes his hand over his beard. His smile retreats to the lines around his eyes. This familiar gesture turns the atmosphere in the car heavy and promising, like the wind that brings the rain with it.
“One day, you’re going to look in the mirror, and you’re going to realize you understand what you don’t know.”
My body’s being jostled in that way only tough old cars shake you, and my mind is doing a little frantic dance, unsettled by his words. I want to hold what he means in my hands and examine it. I want to memorize it, before I lose it somewhere in the space between my ears. But no amount of trying will make me magically understand what I don’t know. These little secrets of the cosmos he so enjoys sharing with me cannot be strong-armed into my psyche. An image comes into focus - my face, finely wrinkled in the mirror, reflecting the comfort of truth and unafraid of the unknown.
“I sure hope so, Grampa.” I sigh, as we roll into the driveway.
We get out of the jeep and climb the red stone stairs to my house. He opens the door into the many broken things I know all too well.
(This is the beginning of a short story, but it kind of feels like the beginnings of a memoir. We'll see. Thanks for reading.)
February 19 2013 - updated with the revised version
February 19 2013 - updated with the revised version
