A Day in 1953

III

The air was ripe with a deep, somber feel. It was only like that because I have just recently been orphaned. Everywhere I go, the air is ripe with a deep, somber feel. I remember the house that stood in front of me looked old, but it welcomed me with open arms. If it could talk, it’ll tell me, “Fred, come in”, it will even sing Welcome to the Family afterwards.

“Do make yourself at home,” grandma Maura smiles as she opens the door for me, “after all, this will be your home from now on.”

I hear piano music from inside, “is that grandpa?”

“Yes, dear,” she answers and closes the door before I fully got in, remembering to tell me something first before I proceed, “you have to take your time with grandpa, Fred. Always keep that in mind. He’s a very special man.”

I let his music lead me to him, it sounded swift and free — like a bird flying merrily on a summer’s day. Grandma told me this was his kind of thing, she told me Ben is a happy man who loves happy things and would like everyone around him to be as happy as can be. Happy is the theme of this house because Ben lives in it, and if you ask me, all that’s missing is the word written all over the walls in bold, friendly letters, accompanied by motivational posters you see in corporate offices. But happy is the last thing you’ll ever be if your mom and dad died last week because of a tragic car accident that will leave you forever scarred. Nevertheless, I managed a smile.

“Sweetheart, this is Fred,” grandma softly touches his shoulder.

The music stopped.

“Do you know how to play?” he asks the moment he came to face me with a wide smile. I shook my head.

“Here,” he pats the space beside him, “sit. I’ll teach you.”

That day was the first time I ever saw him. He is a lighthearted soul who delights in delighting others, and that afternoon, it was me he’s delighting. Despite everything, I never felt a tinge of sadness that day, spending it with him in front of that piano. The sorrow faded steadily as my own hands started to make music under his guidance.

“It’s a window to the soul,” he says, “besides the eyes, I mean. Music reflects who you are, at the same time; it can make you see many things.”

Every morning since then, at exactly eight o’ clock, Benjamin Reid would wake up to the sound of his wife’s voice — reminding him how many years they’ve been married, what happened before that, what happened after that, what they named their only daughter, what happened to their only daughter, and that they have a grandson named Fred who’s now living with them.

Afterwards, that grandson named Fred (who’s now living with them) will come into the room with a box full of photographs to support his grandmother’s words. Ten years later, it sort of turned into a PowerPoint presentation.

“Why did I ever wear that shirt?” Grandpa Ben would occasionally point out to his younger self in one of the pictures, “it’s utterly hideous!”

“On some days,” grandma clarified, “you develop a different sense of style.”

“You’d even wear a bright-colored beret to match that,” I added.

The three of us lived harmoniously through the years. It was a quiet, peaceful life with grandma Maura, grandpa Ben, a new puppy named Steak, grandma’s backyard flower patch and the old, happy, welcoming house that glued us all together.