Of all the houses that i know, I like my
grandpa's best. My friend Rommiel ha a new
glass house with pebble-path gardens that go
Sam, and Justine lives next door in an old
wooden house with rooms behind rooms, all with
carved doors and brass doorknobs. They are fine
houses. But Grandpa'S house is my favorite. Because I
see it through grandpa's eyes.
Grandpa is blind . He doesn't see the house the way
I do. He has his own way of seeing.
In the morning ,the sun pushes through the
curtains into my eyes. I barrow down into the covers
to get away. but the light follow me. I give up throw
back the cover. and run to grandpa's room.
the sun wakes Grandpa differently from the way it
wakes me, He says it touches him, warming him
awake. when i peek around the door. grandpa is
already up and doing his morning exercise Bending
and stretching by the bed. He stops and smiles
because he hears me.
"Good morning , Daniel."
" Where's Nana?" I ask him.
"Don"t you know?" he says bending and stretching.
"Close your eyes. Daniel, and look through my eyes."
I close my eyes. Down below, I hear the banging of
pots and the sound of water running that I didn't hear
before.
"Nana is in the kitchen, making breakfast," I say.
when I open my eyes again, I can see Grandpa
nodding at me. He is tall with dark gray hair. And his
eyes are sharp blue even though they are not sharp
seeing.
I exercise with Grandpa. Up and down. Then I try
to exercise with my eyes closed.
"one, two," say Grandpa, "three, four."
"Wait!" I cry. I am still on one, two when Grandpa
is on three, four.
I fall sideways. three times. Grandpa laughs as he
hears my thumps on carpet.
"Breakfast!" calls Nana from downstairs.
"I smell eggs frying," says Grandpa. He bends his
head close to me "And buttered toast ."
The wooden banister on the stairway has been worm
smooth from Grandpa running his fingers up and down
I walk behind him, my fingers following Grandpa's
smooth path.
we go into the kitch
"I smell flowers," says Grandpa.
"what flowers?'' I ask
He smiles. He loves guessing games.
" Not violets, Daniel, not peonies..."
" Carnations!" I cry. I love guessing games.
" Silly." Grandpa laugh." Marigolds. Right, Nana?"
Nana laughs too.
"That's too easy." she says, putting two plates of
food in front of us.
"That's too easy ,"I protest. "How can grandpa tell?
All the smell mix together in the air."
"Close your eyes," Daniel," say Nana "Tell me what
breakfast is."
"I smell the eggs. I smell the toast." I say my eyes
closed. "And something else. The something else
does't smell good."
"That something else," says Nana, smiling ,"is the merigolds."
marigolds."
When he eats, Grandpa's plate of food is a clock.
"Two eggs at nine o'clock and toast at two o'clock
Says Nana to Grandpa. "And a dollop of jam."
"A dollop of jam," I tell Grandpa. "at six o'clock."
I make my plate of food a clock, too, and eat
through Grandpa"s eyes.
After breakfast, I follow Grandpa's path through the
dining room to the living room, to the table where
he finds his pipe, and to hid cello in the corner.
" Will you play with me, John?'' he asks.
He tunes our cellos without looking. I play with a
music stand and music before me. I know all about
sharps and flats. I see them on the music. But
Grandpa plays them. They are in the fingers. For a
moment I close my eyes and play through Grandpa's
eyes. My fingering hand slides up and down the cello
neck-toward the pegs for flats, toward the bridge for
sharp. But with my eyes closed my bow falls from the
strings.
"Listen," says Grandpa. "I'll play a piece I learned
when I was your age. It was my favorite."
He plays the tune while I listen. That is the way
Grandpa learns new pieces. By listening.
"Now," say Grandpa. "Lets do it together."
"That's fine,"say Grandpa."Let's do it together."
that's fine,"he calls to me . "C sharp!"
Later, Nana brings out her clay to sculpt my
Grandpa's head.
" Sit still," she grumbles.
"I won't," he says, imitating her grumbly voice,
making us laugh.
While she work, Grandpa takes out his piece of
wood. He holds it when he's thinking. His fingers
move back and forth across the wood, making
smooth paths like the ones on the stair banister.
"Can I have a piece of thinking wood. too?" I ask.
Grandpa reaches in his shirt pocket and tosses a
small bit of wood in my direction. I catch it. It is
smooth with no splinters.
"The river is up," says Nana.
Grandpa nods a short nod. "It rained again last
night. Did you hear the gurgling in the rain gutter?"
As they talk, my fingers begin a river on my
thinking wood. The wood will winter in my pocket so
when I am not at Grandpa's house I can still think
about Nana, Grandpa, and the river.
when Nana is finished working Grandpa runs his
hand over the sculpture, his fingers soft and quick
like butterflies.
"It looks like me," he says surprised.
My eyes have already told me that it looks like
Grandpa. But he shows me how to feel his face with
my three middle fingers, and then the clay face.
" Pretend your fingers are water," he tells me.
My waterfall fingers flow down his clay head, filling
in the spaces beneath the eyes like little pools before
they flow down over the cheeks. It does feel like
Grandpa. This time my fingers tell me.
Grandpa and I walk outside, through he front yard
and across the field to the river. Grandpa has not been
blind forever. He remembers in his mind the gleam of
the sun on the river, the Queen Anne's lace in the
meadow, and very dahlia in his garden. But he
gently takes my elbow as we walk so that I can help
show him the path.
" I feel a south wind," says Grandpa.
I can tell which way the wind i blowing because I
see the way the tops of the trees lean. Grandpa tells
by the feel of the meadow grasses and by the way his
hair blows against his face.
