We often do not appreciate little things that mean so much to others. It took my grandfather’s last days to make me understand.
My story begins in May 2006 when I had a spat with my father over my in-laws. Family rivalry runs deep… To mend the hearts I decided to make a surprise call on my parents in Russia who were certain that they would not see me that year. Only my grandfather knew they I would but no one believed him. So I flew from State College to Smolensk in a surprise visit. My father was taken aback and overjoyed, all differences instantly forgotten. My grandfather was right – I did come back.
Things went differently that year. As usually I cleaned my grandparents’ house: vacuumed the ceiling from decade old cobwebs, shaved off the grease from kitchen countertops, and made the loose door steps navigable for grandfather’s crutches. Then I gave Nazar a clean shave, trimmed his hair and nails. I have been gone for ten years and this was my yearly routine. Though my parents lived nearby they rarely called on their old folks.
I grew up with my grands and it pained me to see their sorry state. So that summer I decided to do everything my grandfather wanted. And he always wanted me to drive his Oka – a puny two-seater given by the government to disabled WWII vets. For years I resisted but not this time. It took me 40 minutes to combat the clutch and much to my grandfather’s joy pull out of the garage (my father who happened to approach the house at that very moment relived a second shock).
And so the next day we drove to Sapsho. Nazar always wanted to go to the lake, not for its scenery but to check on the bricks that he lent to my father for construction. Since the bricks were never repaid Nazar wanted to see where his investment went as his previous requests for explanation were denied. But not this time: we squeezed into Oka and drove 60 miles to Sapsho. Nazar saw the house finished with his bricks and was pleased.
When I drove him back Nazar insisted that I take his wooden-soled boots, the ones he cherished for 40 years and never wore. For the first time in 10 years I gave in and thanked him for the gift. Unexpectedly he offered that I take with me to America his grandfather’s clock, a true family relic with chimes, bulky and fragile. I heeded to his will. Then I gave him a bath and groomed him again.
That night my mother relived me of my duty staying with grandparents: my grandma was coughing all nights and rats wee making such a havoc in the kitchen that I did not sleep. She phoned us in the morning, crying. When we got there we found him wearing his best jacket face down on the floor. I washed the blood off him and poured the pink under the birch tree in front of his home. He was ready. His dreams were fulfilled, and he was right about me: I did come back, even though for a while.