The Bull Above The Fireplace

Staring at him now I can’t imagine my life without him. He has been a big part of who I am for the past 22 years, since I was born. Now my heart aches thinking I wont see his wide and wonderful smile. The smile that over the years has never faded despite the lines forming around his lips. My heart aches knowing that things are going to be different now. Not just for me but also for my Grandma. Staring at him now I don’t want to imagine my life without him.

So I don’t imagine.

Instead I dive into my memories trying to find one that warms my heart, one that makes me remember the love and toasty feelings I had while being here with my Grandparents'.

Instead I am left with the memory of The Bull above the fireplace.

Growing up I would go to visit my Grandparents' at their home in Florence, AZ. It would usually be during the summertime when the temperature soared into the 100’s. I didn’t mind though. Every trip to their house was an adventure and even though their house was in the middle of the desert I always found something to do. Being a total tomboy I would dig for fire ants and scorpions so I could collect them in jars I kept on the patio. Sometimes there would be monsoons and I could walk down to the washes to catch toads as they came out of hiding to sing to the rain. But most of the time I would just follow my Grandpa around.

He always kept himself busy from sun up to sun down. Working in his shed or out in their land cleaning up the weeds and keeping the critters away (the same critters I would catch and keep on the patio). Retirement for him wasn’t a time to slow down but a time to do what made him happy, and he was most happy staying busy. When he wasn’t working on the land or fixing up the house he could be found inside his workshop.

That was my favorite place to be when he was working. The workshop was where he would carve and build the most beautiful wood pieces. They were the definition of art and I would sit in the corner of the shop watching in awe as his hands worked chiseling at old chunks of wood. He would make any piece of wood look magnificent. Maybe a tiny hummingbird you can fit in the palm of your hand, or a life sized family of baby quail.

He made many pieces in his lifetime but the one that was his favorite was The Bull above the fireplace. It was a giant carved Bull made of reclaimed wood he found at a flea market. He started on the piece one summer when I was 12. I was there for an entire month although I wished it was longer. I would watch him for hours, staying as quiet as I could so as not to disturb him while he created. Occasionally he would turn around and say, “Oh you're still here peanut? I am almost done.” I knew he was never almost done. He would work all the way until dinnertime.

He carved and worked the wood into features using a picture of a Bull he found in an old encyclopedia. To him, he told me once, the bull was a sign of strength, power and courage. All things that I believed he possessed.

When it was done I could see the glimmer of self respect in my Grandpa's eyes. He was proud of his work, even though he would never show it. He never was one to be pretentious about his skill or anything for that matter. When he brought it in to show my Grandma she gasped and praised his work for the rest of the evening. The piece sat on the dining room table all through dinner and until the next morning. By then my grandma cleaned off a space on the mantle above the fireplace where it would sit for years and years to come.

“Come here Avery and Grab this gorgeous Bull.” She said to him, “I want him right above the fireplace so everyone can see him when they walk in.” She was so proud of him and I could see in My Grandpa’s face how wonderful it made him feel. My Grandpa even moved his wooden rocking chair near the fireplace. He would sit and occasionally look up from whatever novel he was reading to stare at the Bull. A little smile in the corner of his mouth.

As the years passed my Grandfather began to fade and the Alzheimer's started to settle in, turning his mind into a sort of memory puree. He forgot how to do all of his work, and how to carve his masterpieces. He would occasionally stand at the end of the patio staring into the desert, lost. Worst of all he would forget my face and my Grandmothers. By the time I was 18 he was mostly gone.

His daily routine turned into waking up and sitting him in his rocking chair by the fireplace. He would sometimes stare at the Bull and ask my Grandma, “Dear what is that?”

My Grandmother being a patient woman would answer, “That is your wood Bull hun. You made him, do you remember?”

“Well I’ll be,” he said, clearly not remembering. “Did I really?” He would smile and laugh to himself and then a few moments would go by and again he would point at the Bull and ask, “Dear what is that?”

My Grandmother would always answer and although the repetition seemed tough she never waivered. She would answer over and over again until he went to bed, only to wake up and start all over again.

It was the hardest thing to watch, and what my Grandmother endured I hope I never have to know.

I went off to college right out of high school and I didn’t have as much time to visit with my Grandparents'. I would call my Grandmother once a month and check in. Being sure to ask how Grandpa is and she would answer, “Oh staring at that old Bull.” She was always calm and sounded so strong whenever we spoke.

It wasn’t until today when she called that I realized, my Grandmother actually has a breaking point. Or had a breaking point.

And now these memories have come flooding back as I try to drown out the world around me, as I try not to imagine life without my Grandfather.

I can’t seem to turn away though, as I watch the paramedics come in and walk towards my Grandfather's lifeless body. His face was unrecognizable with all the blood covering the once sun beaten old skin. The top of his head smashed in. Brain and skull fragments stuck to the dried blood around his cranium. His arms lay still on each side of the wood rocking chair and the stone from the fireplace is covered in a pool of red blood. In the pool of blood laid the wood Bull, a large crack along its chest.

My Grandmother sitting on the couch across from him. The same place that she has sat throughout the years. She had her arms around her body and she was rocking herself back and forth, repeating to herself the same few words. “Dear what is that? A Bull… A Bull… Dear what is that? A Bull… A Bull…”

I know watching her now that I will never get to make anymore memories with her in this home. The paramedics pronounce my Grandfather dead and a policeman is here now to question me. They take my Grandmother away in an ambulance because she has become incontinent in her new Psychosis. The room continues to bustle as lights flicker from camera and a coroner begins to wrap my Grandfather in a body bag. I found myself through all that was happening over the past few hours, that all I could do was stare at the wood Bull cracked but still beautiful laying in a pool of blood.

"Oh you're still here peanut?" I whispered under my breath.