Heirloom of the Wilting Jacaranda

by Maekawa Kirin

You know… Grandpa Nathe was quite the tease. I can still recall those episodes vividly, in the same way this green tea paints itself in my mind from its lingering taste. Mostly bitter, but one I can stand behind. The peak of my frustrations toward him occurred at my graduation in the late spring of 2005. That day, the rain poured buckets, yet it was merely a gentle murmur compared to the thunder that erupted when Grandpa Nathe accompanied me on stage. I mean, who in their right mind considers a clown costume appropriate to the dress code? That red onesie with white polka dots, a nose bright enough to rival Rudolph's, and hair that made him look like a walking disco ball... My cheeks flush promptly at the thought. The cracked brown floors never looked so calming as we walked across the stage. We were labeled freaks. "Who blew the circus in town?" a classmate of mine yelled. Mom faded into the crowd, laughing along like we were complete strangers. 

In spite of everything, I can't help but smile while reminiscing about those times. It's curious, really, how I find peace amid my shame. The trick is not to take myself seriously, like my Grandpa does. 

Whenever the chance arose, Grandpa would organize the garbage bags, fastening them into segments—small, large, then medium—until they took on the unsettling semblance of an abandoned corpse (some were more akin to croissants), igniting gossip from the neighbors and the disdain from Mom. Meanwhile, Dad and I found it humorous, but the cops weren't amused. "Another fine and we'll send you to the nursing home in a garbage bag," Mom threatened, the sixth repeat serving as the last straw. 

"Fine, fine" was Grandpa's response. He moved his attention elsewhere, mainly to us. Planting frilly dresses into my brother's closet; hiding my action figures, only to magically emerge under my pillow, Grandpa insisting they were alive; banging on our bedroom door and slipping away before we had a chance to find him—the list goes on... We tried fighting back, unaware it would be Mom walking through the doorway. After a pop and splat, our bottoms received a firm smack from our mustard-dowsed Mom. Grandpa was doubled over with laughter behind her, and we soon joined in. 

It's hard to believe two decades could silently slip by without him. Grandpa Nathe passed away without leaving a farewell. It was only through the nurse’s call, at the brink of midnight, that we learned of his loss. Bathed in the silver of the moon, Grandpa slept peacefully on his bed, while outside, slender branches swayed, gently knocking on the window, draped in lavender flowers. “Those shouldn't bloom 'till next season,” the attending nurse said. “It’s a send-off,” Dad responded. “He sure looks happy.” Of us all, only Mom remained in the hallway. 

We were sent home to rest, our fingers curled tightly around the treasure map Grandpa had entrusted to us just a week before. “It means the world to me,” I remember him whispering. “Dig it up once the ground turns gold, like the very day we parted.” 

Even at his funeral, Grandpa wore a sly smirk of pure satisfaction—so unmistakable, I half-expected him to stick out his tongue and shout, “Fooled ya!” Not a single tear was shed. “I can imagine that idiot crunching on popcorn while enjoying the show from up there,” a nephew said. The entire scene felt more like a picnic.

When it was my turn to throw the flowers during the burial, his image stuck with me as if gazing through the closed casket. If only he’d worn his suit at my graduation and not here… 

Time seemed to linger, each day stretched by the gentle pull of our anticipation. When autumn finally came—with trees hued in sunset and the wind carrying the faint sweetness of ripened apples—we took off, armored in multiple layers of blue, wielding our shovels as we traced the map one dot at a time. 

"Here!" My brother pointed to a lifeless patch in the grass. We stood beside a tree unlike the others—its pale brown crown drooping mournfully, bark peeling away with every gust of wind. Wilting, fading away. Regardless, we got to digging—driving our shovels in and out, lifting the soil bit by bit until sweat dripped down our faces. Dad helped out. Mom did too, but not as much, busy fanning us and insisting we take a breather to drink. Words can’t capture the sheer joy that burst through us when Dad announced he’d struck something. A wooden chest soon emerged—squat and rough-edged, built from pale wood scarred and swollen by the earth, left to weather in silence—attracting the eyes of a small crowd. 

Once Dad got it open, many shrieks came. Bones. I cowered behind Mom, while my brother boldly thrust his head into the chest without a second thought. "Smells gross," he complained. The moment the police arrived, we were promptly escorted from the scene, and they cordoned off that section of the park with yellow tape. 

Not long after, we got summoned to the station. Dad talked at length with the policeman. When Mom shook me awake, I saw Dad receive a large paper bag, which he revealed its contents once we got home. "That geezer, really.... Even from beyond the grave."

My reverie was interrupted by a loud call echoing from the house. I set my tea down. It was Mom. “Gramps pooped on the couch again!” Dad's chuckles soon followed. 

Gramps’ mouth playfully twisted into a lopsided, open-mouthed grin, while his fluffy, feather-duster for a tail swished with a mind of its own. Guilty. I ruffled the hazel fur on his belly, and he responded by flipping onto his back, wiggling and squirming like a delighted little worm. “You've done it again, Gramps.” 

Woof! Woof! 

He scratched his head, but the movement drew my eyes to his collar—worn and tattered, yet lovingly mended. Another fun day, the engraving read. “Guess you take after someone.”