The Door

That door. Growing up, I had never gone through that door. "Off limits," my mother would say. Still, I would try to peak under that door.

My family lived some hours from my grandparents, so we didn't visit very often. When we did visit, my siblings and I would run about; kids our age live for the momentary joys, so these long-lasting relationships didn't mean much apart from a change in scenery.

I was so curious about that door. That door must have led to a whole new world. That must be why grandpa wouldn't let us through.

Now much older and more mature, I stood in front of that door. It was a very plain door with no distinguishing features at all. Plain brown with a simple brass colored handle. With my grown-up mind, I knew there wasn't a fantasy land behind that door, but it still captivated me in mystery.

For the last decade, I had not seen my grandparents at all. Right out of high school, I went out of state to university. I never made time to visit when I came home on vacation. But now I stood here in front of that door, the most tangible connection to my grandfather I have.

Last week, I received a phone call from my mother. Through tears, she explained "grandpa died."

I didn't know how to react. I felt like I should be feeling something, but then I was distressed because I didn't feel a thing. Am I really that cold? I thought to myself. Am I that ambivalent?

Being here in his home, I casually walked around, dragging my feet on the carpet, trying to drum up memories of my grandfather. I remembered the time my sister and I were chasing each other and I jumped over the sofa. I was scolded for my recklessness, and told to grow up.

I took some time to contemplate the threshold between the dining room and kitchen. What a bane that was to me. I would constantly trip on that wooden step. Once, I spilled a glass of apple juice tripping on it.

But when I got to that door, I stopped in place. I was usually shooed away from that door by now, but then I was young and didn't have a concept of what things cost when I would break them.

My mother and grandmother were sitting in the dining room chatting, avoiding any topic that would bring to mind grandpa - there will be plenty of time for that at the wake. After what seemed like minutes, I opened that door.

All I knew about this room before was that it was grandpa's room. I stood in the doorway for a moment taking it all in. Two walls were covered with bookshelves loaded with old volumes with hunter green and navy covers. A desk sat beneath a window, with trinkets spread about. Above the window was a shelf with a model train displayed. The chair at the desk was an ancient leather office chair with a lot of wear, patched up with duct tape.

Entering the room gave me a view of the final wall, which was covered in pictures of the family. Pictures of my cousins and their weddings. Pictures of my aunt and uncles. Professional family portraits, and very unprofessional candid shots of family trips. Pictures of my parents, and my siblings. And then pictures of me.

I didn't even remember when some of these pictures were taken. There I was as a toddler with chocolate ice cream on my face. Another picture of me at about 11 in a foot race. A couple graduation pictures. But one picture really captured my attention.

The picture was of my grandfather sitting in a chair, the same one I was sitting in just minutes ago in the front room. A smile was on his face, and expression of pure joy. And there I was, sitting on his lap, looking off to the side with a look of impatience. I looked like I just wanted to get out of his lap to enjoy myself in whatever pursuit I was into when I was 5-years-old.

It struck me as I looked at this picture: Even though I have held my grandfather at a distance throughout my life, he still loved me, and still cherished his time with me. This picture proved that he cared about me so much that he would even have fond memories of a time I was clearly not interested in him.

If there's anything I regret in my life, it is not investing myself in my family.