Grandpa’s Garden

Before his stroke, Grandpa was my favorite. I would sit on his belly, round like Santa’s, and ask him if the battery above his heart hurt. I’d lightly press my fingers against the square shape protruding from his chest, and Grandpa would smile wide, toothlessly.

“Naw, Baby Girl. That’s my ticker,” he’d say. I imagined a tiny clock inside his chest, sort of like the Tin Man.

Grandpa was a self-proclaimed botanist, without using so many words. He planted tomatoes and other vegetables, mostly for canning to keep Grandma and him fed through the harsh winter months when the junkyard didn’t need his help sorting metals. I used to walk behind him. I watched Grandpa whisper to his green babies and touch the leaves carefully. He taught me about them, but I can’t remember his lessons.

After my grandpa’s stroke, between first and second grade, we moved in with my grandparents. They owned a duplex, and we lived on the second floor so my mom could care for him.

There were times I wanted to climb back on his belly, but Grandpa’s new oxygen tank made my belly do flips. I thought I could catch whatever was making him so sick. If I get too close, I’ll need one of those tubes in my nose too.

I don’t have a single picture of the stairs in my grandparents’ house, but I remember them perfectly in my mind: hand carved wood painted the same shade of red as fallen leaves just before they turn brown and crumble. I wasn’t allowed to play outside, so when I wanted to get away from everyone I would sit on the landing. I could hear my mom on the phone above and my grandparents’ television below. I sat there playing with dolls or staring at the cracks and chips in the yellow walls pretending they were a part of a roadmap to someplace magical where Grandpa wasn’t ill.

His ticker stopped that autumn. I was in school when it happened. He was there when I left and gone when I got home, crumbled and blown away with the leaves.

All I kept thinking was that I didn’t get a chance to hug him once more, or to really listen to his lessons.

This year, I planted an herb and vegetable garden. It’s nothing like Grandpa’s, small in comparison. I thought about him while I was out there with my hands in the dirt. I touched the plants with care like he used to. Small bits of food have managed to grow, regardless of my natural knack for killing anything green. Although, some of them are limp, hanging on for dear life. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, or right for that matter. If only I could remember what he taught me.

If only we had more time.

Photo courtesy of Pexels

Categories nonfiction, UncategorizedTags , , , , , , , , , , , ,

12 thoughts on “Grandpa’s Garden

  1. You wrote this so beautifully, and with such love.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I don’t know if this was your goal, but the ticker of the tin man, the yellow paint chips of the yellow brick road, and the emerald city he brought you in the garden… I’m in awe. Beautifully done.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. This was beautiful.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. I love how you described your grandfather. I could see myself in his garden. I too had a triving mini garden wth plants like okra, curry leaves and couple of other vegetables. But ever since I started working, I haven’t had time to chat with these babies and they’re almost dying.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I was sick for a week and went out today only to find heaps of grass growing around them. We’ve had tons of rain and little sun over the last four days, so they’ve almost drowned.


  5. Donna-Louise Bishop May 26, 2017 — 2:29 pm

    Thank you for allowing me to be an early beta reader of this piece. These memories are so precious and I love reading them x

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank YOU for all your help, lovely 😊

      Liked by 1 person

  6. the love express here is phenomenal! love it!

    Liked by 1 person

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