My Grandfather's Cadillac

I remember my grandfather’s Cadillac

snaking up the wooded roads at night.

Curled up on the cool leather in the back seat,

I tried to sleep

but every blind curve evoked a honk from the horn

– car approaching, please share the road –

caution and courtesy as steadfast as his faith.

And so I remained awake,

and paid attention.

 

I remember my grandfather’s warnings:

never go barefoot downstairs,

turn your shoes upside-down at night.

I only recall one scorpion,

and how willingly I obeyed the stern instruction

to keep my distance from it.

He came with a heavy shoe,

followed my pointing finger,

and dispatched both danger and duty

in one confident blow.

I watched in awe,

and paid attention.

 

I remember the stories of how my grandfather built his house,

reviewing the building codes

and multiplying the safety factors by ten,

using what seemed like an entire tree

for the center roof beam.

And how, when “the big one” came

and a tree did fall on the house,

only a few shingles were lost.

I listened to the stories,

and paid attention.

 

I remember my grandfather opening doors

and my grandmother graciously accepting the courtesy,

waiting patiently for him to walk around the car,

open her door, and offer his arm –

not because she needed the support,

but because it was important to him to offer it.

He would reach every door first,

and always was the last one through,

the courtesy deep in his bones.

I noticed,

And paid attention.

 

For years, I found myself rushing

to be the first to reach a door, uncomfortable

with the prospect of having it held open for me.

I thought I was practicing my grandfather’s courtesy,

but after all those years of paying attention

I realized I had never seen him act in haste.

 

So now I remember my grandmother’s patience,

her graceful acceptance of courtesy offered,

allowing the gestures even when the words were halting.

All that either of them ever did for the other,

it was all for love.

Ah, yes, I paid attention to that, too.

 

In my mind, I sit again in the back seat of the Cadillac

watching my grandmother step out on her husband’s arm,

and wait, this time, for my door to be opened as well.