An Aged Blessing

An Aged Blessing

I had sat with widened brown eyes as my grandfather’s callused wrinkled palm pressed against the railings of the widely lined notebook paper. He gently held the sharpened No. #2 between his long fingertips, its point sharp, its pinkish eraser rounded and destroyed from previous mistakes. No, it was not to be used and would never be used, for my grandfather with every bold stroke, every grey line had meaning and was created without hesitation.

His fingers would dance across the inked blue lines, his creased sea stormy blue eyes twinkling with utter delight. The deep and melodic tone of voice dripped of question and wonder, and his light upturned lips slightly twitched upwards, a warm radiating smile almost ready to break. I would clutch the frayed sketches to my rapidly beating chest, my high voice and childish language uttering the words, “What happens next?” I was completely awed by the sharpness of her long beak, the extension of her roughly sketched feathers as she dropped irregular shaped pebbles into a jug. The crow was such a beautiful creature on these pages, the pictured utopia taking place deep within the striking scenery.

Those extraordinary days, sitting close to my grandfather’s frayed beige knitted sweater vest, hours of folk tales and his smell of laundry soap, money, and clean musk filling up my nostrils. His powerful words graciously invited me to a parallel world of imagination and possibility, bursting with the bright rays of hope and prosperity. I could hardly manage retracing these images with a smaller clammy hand, and reiterate the marvelous tales to the kingdom of comforting stuffed animals, seated with perked ears and cheerful stony faces.  These folk tales from my grandfather, his illustrations were what brought me to the world of art and literature. “Nothing is ever wrong,” he once said, “as long as it comes from you.”

Those years of yearning for these magical moments, these magical minutes continued, and I take in the lyrics of his stories ever so carefully spoken composition. The crow and the water jug was classic, a piece played over and over again through the projection of his voice, constantly begged for until he let out a mellow chuckle and ask the eager little girl in pig tails to tell him a story of her own as he closed his eyes and tugged slightly at his alert ears. The collection of his sketches were a treasure buried deep within a worn amethyst binded notebook, the pages filled with the variation of harsher, softer, and curved lines.

As of my father, I had set aside of pile of his most beautifully crafted roses, the edges slightly wrinkled from my harsh childish grip. These few minutes of folk tales, these notebooks filled with sketches are the outer layerings, the protection of a mere innocence. Those simple modest things had a greater affect on my life and to my personality than I could hardly have imagined. Through times of great joy or sorrow, great bliss or great pain is what keeps my creativity beating. Perhaps without it, I take interests in things that bring great laughter when suggested. However, my love for this wonder would be withered, black, and dead.