The tree

Something that I always dwelled on was what kind of death is the best, sudden death or the slow one. If someone dies suddenly maybe it's best for the person who dies but for the family and friends who stay behind it can be quite a painful experience. On the other hand, with a slow death, everyone suffers during the process to the point that when death finally comes is almost welcomed.

These thoughts keep coming back to my mind as I go over my grandfather's belongings. After losing my grandmother suddenly to a heart attack and my grandfather slowly to cancer I guess there is no better death. They are both painful and the ones who stay behind are still not ready for it.

I take a deep breath and dry my tears trying to compose myself. I look at his old study and sigh, there is a lot to be done and if I want to finish today, I need to focus. Most of his belonging had already been packed and divided among the family, we aren't many, after all, and my grandfather was very organized so he had it all on his will, down to the last item to avoid fights or misunderstandings.

The house is going to be sold and the money split between my mom and aunt, the silverware was left to my sister, his car to my youngest cousin, the paintings were left to my middle cousin, his vinyl collection and everything music-related was given to my eldest's cousin, who was also a musician, and for me, he left his study. "I give everything that is currently in my study and any findings that may come from them to Mary".

Two lines. For the past few days, those two lines kept coming back to my mind. Don't get me wrong I am very happy to be inheriting something at all when most grandchildren don't, even though all the others had their collections and items evaluated around 20.000 dollars each and I am quite sure that even if I sold the furniture from the study along with the rest it wouldn't add up to 5k.

But that is not what kept bothering me. Everyone else got at least a paragraph with flourish sentences but me. I got two plain lines. I am being petty, I know. But we were very close, my grandpa and I, and I thought we shared a special bond, so it hurt me a little to think that maybe I was wrong. I snap out of my spiral of sorrow again and try to focus. I need to finish this today or else.

The study is a medium-size room and there is not much furniture in it. There used to be more, but two years ago my grandfather had a stroke and had to start using a wheelchair. After that, to open more room the furniture had to be arranged and some pieces removed. The door was in the middle of the room and to the right, there were his chess table and the bookcase. There were two windows that faced the door and, on the left, there was his desk.

Most of my memories with him are in this room. We used to spend a lot of time here together. His presence is in every inch of it and his smell is still hanging in the air. I brace myself and decide to start with the easiest thing I see, his chessboard. It was a simple piece made of some kind of stone I can't recall the name. I remember when he first taught me how to play and that one time I managed to win. It was a lucky play, but his surprised face was the best. I carefully pack the pieces and the board in a box then move to the bookcase.

I start with the top shelves, sorting out the books I want from the ones I will donate. He had an impressive collection with all sorts of genres. From time to time he would reorganize them, donate a few and buy some more. "We always need to make room for the new things in our lives", he used to say. I find his Latin grammar and remember when we used to study it together, I was twelve at the time.

I keep going until I have all the books in their designated boxes and move to the desk. I notice that the painting that used to hang on the wall behind it it's missing. My cousin might have taken it as he got all the paintings, but I need to remind him that everything inside this study was given to me. And that includes that painting, which I like very much and would like to have it hanging on my wall.

Granddad has always been very tidy and organized and we could see that just by looking at this desk. Besides his computer, perfectly aligned, there were some notes alongside some family pictures. Carefully I put them in a box, alongside his notes, promising myself I will sort them out later. I go through the drawers and put away some papers and folders in the box until I get to the third drawer which is stuck somehow. I move to the last drawer to try to unblock the third and as I put my hand inside it and reach the bottom, I touch something that resembles a small notebook. With a little tug, I managed to set it loose.

I recognize it right away, the little black book he always carried with him. He was always scribbling things down, ideas, things to remember, some poetry, anything really. Towards the end, it was harder and harder for him to do it, but I recall seeing it by his bedside just one week before he passed. I wonder how it came to be here. At this moment, the doorbell rings and I go get the door. My friends John and Mark are waiting for me. They agreed to come and help take the boxes and furniture away. After we are done, I go back to the room, and with a last glance, I turn off the lights and close the door, shutting those memories behind.

A few weeks later, I am adjusting the panting my cousin took from the study on my condo wall after finally putting all the books away. The only thing left is to go through the boxes with the documents. When I opened the box, I see the small black notebook right on top. I had completely forgotten about it. Later that night I pour myself a cup of tea and sit on the couch with the little black book. I flip through the pages savouring his last words and memories. I can see the changes in the writing from before and after the stroke. He lost some movement on his right hand so he taught himself how to write with his left. I could see the effort and how he improved, but the entries became sparser towards the end, maybe because of the chemo.

I go back to the first page and read the passages carefully. Midway through my reading, I notice a pattern. Some letters are underlined and some page numbers are circled. I go forward and see it continues until the end and the pen used is different. Right away I get up and get a paper and pen to try to decipher it. I am sure this is a code somehow, my grandpa loved puzzles, we even created our own secret language when I was younger.

"Go to where it all began." After spending the whole night trying to find the pattern that is the message I get. I stare at it blankly. I have no idea what that means. I am sure he wanted me to have this and the message is meant for me, but I just have no clue what he wanted to say.

After a week of going through all the books, files and folders he left behind I am ready to give up. Maybe he was just bored and created that message to pass his time, after all, he did not have much more to do in his last days. Maybe the whole point of that was just to go through a memory lane and remind all the games we used to play, to reminisce of all the good things we have been through.

Defeated, I decide to make some tea and sit on the couch again staring at the painting that now hangs on my wall. It depicts a big oak tree in a green field. My grandmother painted it. We all know the story about that tree. They fell in love at the first sight, and after a month of dating, while my grandmother was on the top of an oak tree my grandfather kneeled and proposed to her. They were happily married for 55 years.

Suddenly something clicked. That tree. Where it all began. With a jump, I stand up and grab my car keys while I look for the farm address. I don't even know if the tree is still there, the farm had been sold almost a decade ago but I had to check. My mind is racing. I try to remember the last time we visited the place. I know we were there two years ago to spread grandmother’s ashes but he could not have left anything there all this time, how could he. And after the stroke, that happened at the same time, he barely left the house.

When I arrive, the gates are open and I drive to the main house. By the time I park and leave the car the new owner is already at the door waiting for me. "I was starting to think you would never come". I stare at him blankly. He laughs out loud and hands me a small package. "This arrived a month ago addressed to you”.

"I believe you want to see the tree", he said as if reading my mind. The sun is setting and the sky has this beautiful pink shade. I take a deep breath and appreciate the scenery. I sit under the tree and slowly open the package. Inside there is a blue velvet ring box and a note. I open the box to find a diamond ring inside. The same ring he gave my grandma on their 50-year anniversary.

After grandma died no one could find it and, in the end, we assumed It had been lost when she had a heart attack and was taken to the hospital. I guess he tricked us all, he had it all this time. I open the note and recognize his shaky handwriting.

"My dear Mary, my bright and smart girl. I bet you were disappointed with my message in the will. I know you so well darling, almost as well you know me. You were always a clever girl, the one who loved a challenge and was always eager to learn. I saw that spark the moment I held you in my arms and I knew you and I shared that same fire. I hope you don't let these flames stop burning after I am gone. Thank you for making these last days more interesting for me. I had enormous fun creating this riddle. Don't keep your grandmother's ring, sell it, it's worth 20.000 dollars. Use the money to do something for yourself. I will always be with you. I love you to the moon and back."

My heart is finally light, not because of the ring or the money, but because of the note. I finally found my peace in the end. By the tree, and ready for my new beginning.