Doby
Day 004 of 100 // April 9, 2015
My grandfather died in April.
In February, I lost my grandmother's ring. It wasn't "valuable", at least not compared to some other things of hers I've inherited. But unlike those things, I remembered it on her finger. She wore it every day. I wore it every day for four years, from the time my mother gave it to me at my brother's wedding until the day it fell off my finger. It was a unique band; moulded yellow-gold with crevices just asking to be filled with gunk. It was covered in paint. I was often told how modern it looked, those met by surprise when they found out it had belonged to my late grandmother. I'd had it resized to fit on my right hand instead of my left; shifting things around since I introduced a wedding ring.
The cold really shrinks my fingers. I'd deduced it fell off into a snowbank, after I tore my house apart once I realized it wasn't on my finger. Part of me expected to find it when I moved six months later. I'd had some drinks the night I lost it, and, not being a stranger to losing things and terrified of having to relive the pain of losing it again in the morning, I scrawled myself a note on the chalkboard in the kitchen thinking I could ease into it.
"Yes, you lost your grandmother's ring.
Yes. You fucking hate yourself."
My grandparents' living room was set up with two matching love seats, separated by a dark wood side-table. They used to sit at either end and roll cigarettes. My grandmother sometimes plucked her eyebrows, stretching her face out in a magnifying pink pocket-mirror. My grandfather's couch on the left became so worn with age, a hole in the plaid the size of his ass. Their house was large, but other than passing through at bedtime and perhaps a morning coffee in the sunlight, they seemed to only really hang out in this one room. My grandfather was born in the house. He died there, eighty-eight years later. It was hard not to think about the concept of time passing when you were in that house. In some ways, it stood still; the dolls on the couch seemed unchanged from the way my grandmother had arranged them, when she'd died seventeen years prior. Just recently, while visiting his home after he died, I found a Betty & Veronica comic with my name on it in the floor of the guest room, spawning the memory of reading it in the cot as a twelve-year-old. Other things, like the in-ground pool, once the site of college students summer parties and grandchildren learning how to swim, now more akin to a terrarium.
I'm afraid of dying, I'm afraid of death. I'm constantly wondering in seemingly non-dangerous situations if this is it. Because, what if everything just stops? Nothing scares me more than encountering an old person that is as terrified as I am about the idea of dying. The only thing that gets me out of bed in the morning is the thought that I may somehow get used to the idea that its going to happen some day, even be okay with it. It's a part of life, right? It's been a tough year in terms of avoiding the idea of mortality. As I write this, the hibiscus tree in my home just dropped a yellow leaf.
I'm currently looking at a framed, yellowed black & white photograph of a stoic black lab, head tilted to the left, choke-chain dangling. The label "DOBY", neatly written in ink below. It's hanging in my living room, next to the television. Neighboured by a Huron-Wendat dreamcatcher and a painting too large for the room. Every time I look at it, I think about it in my grandparents' house, where it hung for my entire life. I assumed this dog was one my mom knew, but she tells me Doby died before she was born and because I never actually asked my grandfather, I'm not entirely sure of the timeline. I look at it and I am five. I'm in their living room, half-naked with chickenpox. I am twelve, sitting on one of two matching couches, while my mom talks in the next room with my ailing grandmother about scheduling her an appointment for a haircut. I am twenty six, visiting my grandfather after he broke his hip. His friend is over, smoking in the corner like it was ten years ago. I am unsure if I've been here since I was twelve.
I inherited a few other things from that house. The coffee table, some old paintings, a vintage map of Orillia, a round dining room table with a set of chairs. Both dark wood, chestnut maybe? I have no idea, just that I had them for twenty minutes before I made a water ring on the coffee table. I've never owned anything that actually required coasters. In my studio, I sit on an old, green vinyl chair. The bedside tables are now small and antique. Our linens sit in a wooden, green wash-stand. It's beautiful so we try and ignore how musty it makes our towels smell.
The last time I saw my grandfather was the day after my wedding. We'd shared a ride with a family friend from the hotel back to my parents'. He stood solo under the wedding tent, bracing himself with his walker, when I asked him if I could get him anything. He asked for a beer. I was happier than I should have been to be able to pour it. He thanked me and took a sip, hanging on to the glass and placing the bottle on the seat of the walker. I told him I'd be back in a bit-- I had to say goodbye to some out of town friends. Later, I realized he'd left without saying goodbye; probably unwilling to interrupt me. I was upset with myself for not noticing but resolved I'd see him soon, even though I knew I wouldn't. I spoke to him on the phone months later, after he'd sent me a card in the mail with a sizeable cheque. I assured him I'd buy something special with it. He told me to spend it on art supplies.
I was lucky enough to take whatever I wanted, but if I had to choose only one thing from my grandfather's entire house, it'd be the Doby photograph. For years the tables while pristine, stayed hidden under cloths and clutter. The washstand, clearly shut for years. The picture of Doby stayed next to the TV, for a time behind a cat-tree, sometimes framed by a hanging wooden parrot. The constant in a setting of ever-changing knickknacks. It comforts me to know he looked at it every day. I like that he loved an animal enough to take its portrait.
