“Dammit boy it’s common sense ain’t it? A quail’s a sight easier to hit if you’d jest keep yer eyes op’n.” I adjusted my grip on the darkly stained stock of the 1983 12-gauge Beretta shotgun I held and broke it down. I admired the oiled fluidity of the piece and the two trails of smoke that my wasted shotshells left behind as they discharged. Still shaking his head, my grandfather produced from the folds of his insulated flannel shirt his old pipe. He packed that mahogany relic to the brim and - with Clint Eastwood-esque flair - struck a match under his left thumbnail. The chill December air was infused with scents of cordite and tobacco smoke. Taking a series of long, pensive draws on his pipe, my grandfather critically eyed the upper reaches of the oak tree we stood beneath. His gaze came to rest on the prized patches of mistletoe that were harbored in those highest branches. He parted his lips slightly and extended his lower jaw to exhale smoke, exposing the gap in his bottom row of teeth: a result of the time his log splitter malfunctioned, causing a piece of pine kindling to ricochet off of his lower lip. I stood, 5’4” at attention at his shoulder; my thoughts ventured skyward towards the heavy, snow-laden clouds above; thoughts of the piles of homework that lay undone in my pack at home, the impending return to lessons, the dreary days spent without contact with my friends. My eyes were equally disconnected from the sentinel border of the forest I stood before; they drifted downward and rested on the toe of my left boot, and the exposed steel fragment barely discernible amongst the sheen of ice crystals that formed there in the stillness. Slowly, a silence engulfed us. It bled from the frozen barrel of the Beretta and collected in between each tick mark of the broken wristwatch I wore. Such a silence never reveals itself with great pomp and grandiose like a shocked silence ensuing a punch in the face or a car crash, no. This silence was certain of its existence, and nestled comfortably in my deep jacket pockets beside the bone handle folding knife my grandfather gave me, and the earplugs that I neglected to use because of the discomfort they afforded. With suddenness, my grandfather turned away from me to survey the expanse of soft, white pasture behind us. As his words rolled softly down over the land, the silence sunk itself in and I saw his shoulders bow in an expression of release: “I know yer gonna forget this, but I hope you don’t. Yer gonna go off and forget that ya used to climb that cedar tree in the back. And yer gonna forget when Harley was alive and you’d ride that big ol’ dog round the yard til ya fell off from laughin’ sa hard. And you might ev’n forget today. Hell, all I’ve done is get on ya, why would ya wanna remember sumthin’ like that? I just hope you remember that ever’thing you go through oughta mean sumthin’ to ya. You’ll figger out one a these days that makin’ money is a damn sight less fun than makin’ a memory.” Without having looked me in the eyes, he struck off at a breakneck pace towards the house. I wasn’t quite sure whether he expected me to follow. Through all of it, the silence remained. An assertive silence will often go unnoticed, as this one did for some time in my experience.
Thirteen years later, I received a call at work from my father. He informed me that my grandfather had passed away in the night. I was immediately transported back to that crisp December morning amid the crystalline undergrowth. It’s taken time but I know the gift that my grandfather gave me in that moment, and I’m glad I didn’t ruin it with anything silly like: “I’m cold”, or “my feet hurt”, or “I love you.”