November 2022: Finding My Grandfather - Patricia Schluter
The first time I found my grandfather – Jack – I was 11 years old. My father hadn’t seen him since he was a toddler. That was maybe 35 years ago. My father never talked about him. I supposed he had no memories of him. Or perhaps those memories were not awfully pleasant. From a distant city, Jack had written a letter to my father and asked, humbly, if he could meet him and then his family. My father met him and decided Jack should meet us.
I found my grandfather at our long table; tall, old, unfamiliar, yet somehow familiar. He didn’t eat dinner. He didn’t like the way my mother had made it. He was a Chef. He went outside to look at our back yard. I watched him as he stood in the middle of the yard, his thick, neat, white hair stark against the deep blue night, looking at the sky and the darkened house next door. My father had built our home next to my grandmother.
The second time I found my grandfather, we’d travelled east to shop in the biggest nearby city. I’d walked past people sitting on the benches in the middle of the bustling, sun-drenched mall and recognised him. I told my mother. She did not believe me. I was insistent. We walked back and talked to him. Politely. As if he was some old acquaintance, not a person whose face reminded you of your father, just older, and whose last name you bore with pride, but completely no understanding of where it came from. The same last name your grandmother had kept.
In between there were letters and gifts and important words.
The third time I found my grandfather, the train was pulling into the rickety old station in our hometown. I saw his face through the window just for a moment. I
told my mother. She did not believe me. We were there to pick up my Nanna. My maternal Grandmother. She believed me. And sure enough, Jack turned up at our home the next day. And flowers arrived next door. The same white roses my grandmother always got on her birthday but never told us who had sent them.
The last time I found my grandfather was long after he died and a long way from where we lived. I was looking for his ashes at the Crematorium for War Veterans. He’d served in World War II. He’d died less than 12 months after I first found him. I couldn’t go to the funeral. I was told I was too young and there wasn’t enough money. Now, I was older and wanted to remind him I cared. I had no map, and no idea where his plaque was. The office was closed. There were thousands of plaques on long walls. I closed my eyes, asked for guidance, then opened my eyes and walked straight to his plaque. An aged plastic rose was tucked into the wall beside his name.
Patricia Schluter
#RightLeftWrite’s November genre prompt was Memoir.
Taking over December and January's Right Left Write, our annual GenreCon short story competition is back for 2023.
Accepting submissions of genre fiction up to 1,000 words on the theme Forbidden Doors. The winning story will be published online, and announced with a special presentation and reading at our Launch Night event. Submit now!
Right Left Write’s November genre prompt was Memoir.