A Faraway Memory Close to My Heart - Grandpa Buck

As the days, weeks, months, and years have passed, memories of you have faded. I have gone for long periods of time without thinking about you. Yet, for some reason, you've been on my mind a lot lately. Perhaps it's because I've started purposely replaying all memories in my mind. Sometimes, I get scared when I find myself forgetting someone. I don't want to forget you. So I make myself remember.

I run down the brick path to your front door, at which I knock. I open before I hear you answer because I know you can't wait to see me. You're sitting in your big, gray armchair, in front of the T.V., watching Gunsmoke. You're wearing the usual - tennis shoes; brown slacks; dirty, white, cotton shirt; Derrick Engineering hat; and glasses, held together by Duct tape.

I climb into your lap to give you a hug. Your stubble tickles my face as you kiss my cheek. I lean against your chest, feeling the deep, gentle rumble of your voice. I close my eyes, and take a deep breath. Folger's Coffee with cheap, vanilla ice-cream. Sun, dirt, and sweat. Rusty nails. It's the scent of you.

You tell me the same jokes as the ones you told me last time (the "pizza pie" one; the one about why mom had Caitlin on December 4th, the one about wiping the baby's face with a dishrag, etc.). I laugh just as hard this time. I can't help but laugh when you crack yourself up. Your eyes crinkle up and your shoulders shake.

You give me "horseback rides" on your lap, yelling, "Heigh Ho, Silver, Away!" You take me outside, help me up on Shimmers' bare back, and take us for a walk. You don't let me go as fast as I want to because you don't want me to get hurt. 

You start the tractor and my brothers, sisters, and I all run toward it, screaming. You let us hop in the wagon in the back, driving all over the acreage. Every once in a while, you look back to make sure we're okay. We make you laugh. When you aren't looking, we stand, or hang our feet over the edge.


I find you in your shed, sorting screws. I talk non-stop while you just smile and nod (and  chuckle to yourself sometimes, I'm sure).


My sisters and I want a clubhouse because the boys are building themselves one. You build us one in a tree. We call it the W.G.H. treehouse (i.e., "With Grandpa's Help"). I help nail down one board.

You look around at all of us sitting at the dinner table and say, "All 'n y'all is purty" like you always do. I pull the "scraps" off of my bread. You get on to me, so I reluctantly eat them. I don't finish everything on my plate this time, so you eat most of it then dump the rest of it in the slop bucket.

I overhear you talking to my big brothers about the war. You can answer their questions at first because you were in the Field Artillery and didn't see the effect you had. But you remember that one time, and I see your eyes brimming with tears. I've never seen you cry. You walk away.

It's the end of the day. I crawl tiredly back into your chair. Mom says it's time to go and you hold onto me more tightly than before. Your hand squeezes my hand, which is swallowed in your grasp. Your hands, which are missing parts of two fingers, are strong and rough, yet soft and gentle. "Aren't you gonna stay the night?" you ask. Not this time. 

I wish I had stayed. Every time you asked.

I miss you.