effect, immense, shimmer

Grandpa's Hands - By John White

They were yelling at me. Screaming at me. I was crying from a punch in the stomach.

My grandpa sat, 83 and frail, quietly at the kitchen table, caught in the midst of a dysfunctional horror show.

"Go to your room" my mom said.

"Fucking bitch" said my brother.

My grandpa sat quietly at the kitchen table.

"How is this my fault!" I screamed, hysterical, still sick from the punch in my stomach, I ran to my room.

An hour passed, and the house was quiet. My brother was gone; my mom had gone to bed. My grandpa sat quietly at the kitchen table.

I walked in, and he slid a piece of paper towards me.

I don't know why they are mean to you.

You should tell them to stick their head in a snow-blower.

You are loved.

I love you.

My grandpa, who could not fight them with his voice or his strength, lifted me up with his words and his love. He taught me I was worthy of love. Taught me I was worthy of hugs.

The effect of his teachings was HOPE.

Hope for something more.

When he died I ran away, lived on the streets for a year, unwilling to go home without him there.

His love brought me home. His love made me realize I was worthy of help. Help I received as I moved from group homes to foster care, knowing he was there. Watching me. Cheering me on. Giving me strength. Guiding me towards a life of immense beauty.

But that night, after the yelling, the violence, and the crying…in the dim light of the kitchen, I sat on his lap. I put my head on his shoulder. He called me his little Chickadee, and his love made the room shimmer.

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