My grandfather was a practical man of few words. Even his laughter was silent. He would cover his mouth and throw his head back, his eyes crinkling at the corners like the pages of a well-loved book, his shoulders shaking with an adolescent glee.
A politician by vocation, his career was in the background of the loudspeakers of his party. Coming from a communist country, his spirituality was science and religion was a backward beast of a bygone era.
But he still loved the mysteries of life. And as he grew older he became enamoured with the dark depths of the cosmos. His life’s work led him to know the extent of human power on earth, while the stars led him to know the earth’s very small place in infinite realms of twisting galaxies.
And he loved art. Beautiful, real paintings covered his walls. Not cheap renditions from mass market stores but carefully selected pieces. A backlash, perhaps, against the communist background upon which his own life was painted. Streaks of individual spirit, colours of humble experiences, scenes of everyday homes and streets, the oils and acrylics brushed deliberately against a plain and hostile white canvas.
The evening he passed away I padded outside onto the driveway in my bare feet and hugged my tearful father. I turned my chin up to rest it on his shoulder and a perfect streak of a shooting star crossed the round sky. I’m alright, it said, I’m just somewhere else now – in the mystery.
A quiet scene of canoes in the fog sits on my mantel, inherited from him. My eyes barely register its muted earthy colours. But it comforts me whenever I chance to look at it properly, a silent reminder of my silent grandfather, and his muted, ethereal, unremarkable, remarkable life.
Violet Vale 