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Prowd

A Gift After Grief

By Alex BoonePublished 3 years ago 8 min read
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Alex sat in his childhood bedroom while his Nonna sobbed herself to sleep in the room opposite his. He had moved back in a couple of weeks ago when his Nonno suddenly passed. The house, once warm and inviting, now seemed far too big and empty. “Matteo!” Alex could hear her muffled wails and made his way across the hall . “Ale! Lascia mei stare! Leave me alone!” she yelled as heard him enter the room. Alex looked sadly at his Nonna. As he turned to head back to his room the hallway felt too long, his bed too far away, so for the third time that week he slumped to the floor and slept outside his Nonna’s door.

He awoke with a blanket draped over him, and a pillow crammed under his head, his Nonna’s bed empty. He made his way downstairs, but the house was empty as well. From the yard came two distinct sounds, one of wood snapping, and the other a string of broken English cursing which was usually directed at him. Alex made his way to the backyard. “Stupid fuckinga garbiggio!” She tossed the piece of wood into the neighbouring yard as she stumbled out of the garden.

When his Nonno was around Alex had never really paid attention to what went into tending the garden—just another regret in a long list. Alex’s grandparents had immigrated to Canada in the late 50s, met and married soon after. His Nonno had always been harder on Alex than he was on his siblings or cousins, but Alex had attributed that to him being the oldest. “You be what they suppose to be, ” his grandfather had said to him one night. He had pushed Alex to be a role model, and Alex pushed back every chance he could. Another regret.

He helped his Nonna water the garden and attempted to tie up the tomato vine she was fumbling with. “Cosi? Like this?” he asked. She nodded and shuffled her way inside. Alex walked just out of view of the windows and lit a cigarette. His Nonna knew he smoked, but would only ever scold him if she saw him. He stood looking at the state of disarray the backyard was in after only a month without his Nonno’s green thumb. Leaning up against his grandfather’s car, Alex remembered the day trips they used to take, and for the first time since the funeral, he wept.

Eventually he made his way back into the house. “Che puzza, you fucking stink,” Nonna scolded him. She poured him a coffee, pushed a plate of cookies towards him, and disappeared into the next room. She returned after only a moment with a small box and placed it on the table. She paused the way she did when she struggled to find the right English words. “This from Nonno. He leave for you.” Alex stared blankly. He didn’t know what it was. He didn’t need to. Tears welled up once more.

In the privacy of his room, he sat with the box in front of him, a tightness growing in his chest. What had he been left? Why did Nonna wait until now to give it to him? He opened it slowly, as if something was alive and waiting to be released. The smell of his grandfather crept into his nose, and he braced himself, hoping for his cheery “Helllooo,” to bellow from the hallway. After a moment Alex reached in and found only a black book, a familiar set of car keys, and enough money for a tank of gas.

The book was plain, save for the M.B. roughly carved into the cover. Alex flipped open the book and found nearly all the pages had been ripped out. The first page had another small key taped to it, the second a picture of Alex and his Nonno, taken the first time they had gone fishing. His Nonno, along with a couple of his brothers, owned a plot of land outside of the city. Alex was four the first time they made the long drive, and caught fish in the pond. He flipped through more pages but found that only frayed edges remained.

Slowly he peeled the picture off the paper and flipped it over. Start here was scribbled in Italian on the back. Taped to the book’s back cover was the car ownership and insurance slips, both in Alex’s name. “He must have changed it over before he got sick,” Alex mumbled to himself as he headed toward to the car.

He remembered the way—they must have driven up there a hundred times. Alex arrived at the gated plot of land, pulled the key out of the black book and tried it in the gate. Click. He walked slowly up the dirt road towards the pond. A single fishing rod stood propped up, its line cast into the pond. Alex reeled it in. At the end of the line was another journal page in a water-tight bag, the scavenger hunt growing ever more elaborate.

Alex pulled out the page. We eat mushmello sangweech, it read. Alex laughed as he stared down at a photo of himself, hands covered in gooey marshmallow, his grandfather laughing next to him. Instinctively, Alex made his way to the fire pit. He’d sat here long into the night with his Nonno, listening to him try his best to tell stories in broken English of when he was younger, so that Alex would understand.

Alex’s favourite story was the one about World War II. The planes would often have dogfights over his Nonno’s town. Whenever the alarms sounded for people to take cover, Alex’s grandfather would instead run through the street, collecting the shell casings as they fell from the sky. He would later sell them and give his mother whatever money he made. He’d kept one shell and would wave it around whenever he told the story.

As he sat there, staring at the ashes from countless fires, something shiny caught Alex’s eye. As he fished through the soot, he caught sight of another journal page. The bag also contained his Nonno’s prized shell casing. The page had no notes—just a photo of Alex curled up asleep in a sleeping bag on a futon.

The shack sat on the far end of the farm, unused for ages. The door was locked, but that wasn’t a problem. Alex knew a secret. He tapped along the window until one brick shifted slightly. He moved it aside, and under years of dirt, and a few potato bugs, was a key. The door opened easily, but a musty smell lingered in the shack. As he walked inside, the floor creaked beneath him, the wood rotten, bending with every step. How could they let this happen to this place?

Alex slumped onto the dusty couch and the whole shack seemed to buckle. Today had been the first day the memory of his grandfather hadn’t made his chest ache, but as he took in the state of the place he loved so dearly, the pain came back. He sat there, face in his hands, when he caught a glimpse of another page, stuck between the couch cushions.

Alex pulled the page free and held it up. Taped to the page was another folded paper. He unfolded it, and tears welled in his eyes once more. His Nonno had saved a picture Alex had drawn when he was a child: the two of them planting tomatoes together . Alex folded the drawing and sat in silence. This day kept poking at wound that was already so raw. If his grandfather had really set this up for him, had he felt the same way when putting it together?

Back near the front gate stood Nonno’s greenhouse. Alex made his way back to the car, stopping in front of it. Inside he spied a patch of dirt with a few tomato plants sprouting, the only spot that had any sort of vegetation. He dug up the plants and continued to dig. Clunk. He pulled out a box very similar to the one he had been given that morning, albeit slightly larger. The sun was beginning to sink from the sky, so Alex started a fire.

As he sat in the firelight, he opened the box. Alex pulled out page after page with photos and drawings attached. The pages that didn’t have pictures had dates, and memories quickly jotted down. For every instance he felt like his grandfather hadn’t cared about him the same way he did his other grandkids, there laid page after page proving the opposite. For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Alex sobbed. He slept in his car that night, spending it slumbering under the stars like he had so many times before, and for the first time since his grandfather passed, he felt at ease.

At sunrise, Alex hurried home to show his grandmother everything he’d found. As he made his way up the walkway the box slipped from his grasp. It split open with a crack, spilling its pages. Alex scrambled to gather up the memories of his grandfather. As he picked up the box, he noticed a false bottom. “I save this for you from when you baby. I know you do good with it. I prowd. I love you.” Alex’s voice wavered as he read the note, which was taped to a very large sum of money.

Alex sat in his room, $20,000 on a table in front of him. It took him no time at all to decide where that money would go. Over the next few months Alex would disappear before his Nonna woke and return long after she fell asleep. She was convinced he was dealing drugs.

***

Nonna appeared in the kitchen shortly after Alex had brewed a pot of coffee. He sat waiting excitedly as she poured herself a cup. “Hurry up, we have to go,” he urged his grandmother. Alex helped her into the car and showed her what he had been keeping secret. They drove past the gate, down the dirt road, and parked the car. Alex walked her over to the shack, moved the loose brick, picked up the key, and unlocked the door.

The shack was unrecognizable. “You fix?” Nonna asked, amazed. “Ya, I fix,” Alex chuckled. They played cards, ate roasted ‘mushmellos,’ and shared their memories of Nonno, long into the night.

grandparents
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About the Creator

Alex Boone

Dad/Husband

Aspiring Screenwriter

Highschool poet

Just writing things and stuff

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