And I think of my Grandpa.
Last Friday marked 15 years since my maternal grandfather passed away from complications due to smoking. I had just started my first term at community college, my whole adulthood in front of me. I remember frequenting my grandparents' split-level in his last days, him lying on the couch in the living room while my mom and grandma talked in the kitchen.
I have many memories of him. He was a towering figure, well over six feet tall and rail thin. He wore large metal-rimmed glasses, button down shirts, straight pants, and thick black shoes. He was a railroad cop and was often in uniform. He carried a gun. One time he tried to show it to me, and I burst into tears.
Certain memories of him never leave me, though. One is the way my grandpa loved to take care of his lawn. It was his glory. He boasted that he could mow it so straight and so accurately, that if you bent down, eye-level with the blades, every single one would be the same height. He put such care into his plot of land, as if it was his reward for all the long nights he spent patrolling the train yard. Often he'd be out back on my grandparents' second-story deck, sunk into a crouch and smoking a cigarette, just enjoying.
When he would come over to my parents' house on weekends, he liked to watch me mow the lawn - my chore at the time. It would take over an hour on the riding lawnmower to cut our nearly three acres' worth of land. My grandpa would crouch at the edge of our driveway, smoking and watching, and when I'd finish, he'd tease me that I missed a spot or praise how precise a job I'd done.
Days before he died, I went to visit him alone. We sat out on the deck, overlooking his lawn. He told me how proud he was of me, that I was attending college. He said, "Work hard; get good grades. Then get a good job."
So I did.
Now that I have a lawn of my own, I can feel him here, crouching down, nodding his approval at the path my life has taken.
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