A Story of Anna
I used to run away from home a lot when I was young. I would go to my room, pack my little suitcase with my brown cowboy pants and little brown boots, grab my cowboy hat, the one with the draw string that I would pull up under my chin, and go say goodbye to Mother. She would tell me to be sure to write, and off I’d go, straight across the neighbor’s yard and over to Grandpa’s house. He would invite me to sit down at the kitchen table, and he’d pour me a Coca-Cola. In the 50’s, the Cokes were fairly bitter, so Grandpa would put a teaspoon of sugar in it. I liked to watch the coke fizz, and it tasted much better this way. After a half of an hour or so, Grandpa would ask me if I missed my mother and dad and if I knew that they might be sad that I ran away. I’d get so upset that I would pack up my bag, put my cowboy hat back on, and run straight back to the house to see my parents. Mom would always be glad that I was back home.
My grandmother, Anna, was always ill. She had a neural disease which manifested itself in her spinal cord and brain. For twelve years she was virtually an invalid. She would wear Vicks VapoRub on her lips, and every time I went to visit my grandparents, Anna would insist that we give her a kiss. Needless to say, I would not look forward to those kisses. For the first twelve years of my grandfather’s retirement, he took care of the house, the car, the yard, and all of his grandsons, but most of all, he took good care of his wife, a wife who couldn’t show him love nor had the desire to, a wife who was once the prettiest lady in Jackson County but had been reduced to a broken and helpless invalid. But my grandpa would always make time for her...always. He would feed her, hold her in his arms, and never think twice of sending her to a nursing home. I never could understand why he loved her so.
When Anna passed away, I remember Grandpa crying. It wasn’t a wail; it was a cry of relief, a cry that people have when they are relieved that the one they love so dearly would no longer be suffering or in pain. My grandpa’s expression touched my soul and showed me how relieved he was that Anna would no longer hurt. Later that year I went with Grandpa to the cemetery to clean up the weeds around the site where Anna was buried. He asked me to wait by the car and walked over to her grave stone, went down on one knee, and had a little talk about something. A week later, Grandpa remarried; he was 75 years of age. As time went by, I’d go back to the cemetery to see my father’s grave and read the inscriptions on my family’s grave stones. Anna’s plot was always freshly cleaned and always had a bunch of flowers set down beside her plot. Even though she had long since gone, Grandpa was still making time for Anna. He always had time for her.
Grandpa taught me a lot of things, especially about love and what it takes to show a person how much you care for them, not in a formal way, but by his actions. As I become more aware of what the meaning of love is, I recall how patient and caring my grandpa was toward Anna. You see, love means so much more than saying it. My grandpa knew how to live it, hold it to him, and enfold Anna’s love in his dreams and actions. When she died, his love remained, because true love for Ben Bovinet’s wife was as real to him as a full moon. I loved my grandpa, and he is still teaching me things I never understood before now like what it takes to be patient and show someone your love by your actions. I never felt in love with a woman until I met my wife, Jill...the kind of love that grabs your heart and demands that you watch over another person in your life. My grandpa must have felt the same about Anna. That’s why he stayed by her side until all life within her slipped away. I want my children and wife to all know that I’ll always try to make time for them the way my grandpa did for his grandsons and Anna.
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