A Little Gratitude

“The name Fyodor means God’s gift.”

Fyodor could recall the conversation between him and his grandmother with vivid detail. He remembered how pale she was as she sat up on her bed, long and wrinkly fingers sat atop each other on the faded blue blanket, another smaller knitted blanket draped over her thin shoulders, her frizzy gray hair tucked underneath an old beanie, and her tired but still kind face.

Fyodor was six at the time, sitting close beside his grandmother’s bedside on a wooden stool with the light from the candle on her bedside table illuminating the two.

“Little Fyodor, where is Anessa?” his grandmother grumbled in an impatient tone.

Anessa was his mother’s first name.

“Mom’s still at work.” Fyodor answered, swinging his legs that did not reach the ground. He woke up early that morning to see his mom scrambling to find her keys before giving him a hurried kiss on the forehead and an “I love you” and “I’ll be home late” before darting out the door.

“Blasted child,” his grandmother would always mutter with a sign, “she shouldn’t be working so hard. She’ll grow ill again at this rate. I won’t always be there to look after you when she and your father are away.”

“Grandmother?”

She reached out to pat his head. “It’s nothing. Be sure to look out for your mother.” He nodded. “Make sure she’s eating well.” Another nod. “Tell your father to take care of himself too.” Another nod.

His grandmother did this more often now; he’s grown used to her jotting off little reminders.

“That’s right. You’ll be turning seven soon.” She said slowly, “Little Fyodor, go to my dresser and look for me a green box. It should be somewhere on the bottom drawer. Bring it to me.”

Fyodor hopped off the stool and jogged to the pine dresser on the other side of the small bedroom.

“This?”

He held up a moss green box.

“Yes. Open it.”

Inside was a small, black notebook. The slightly yellow pages hinted at its somewhat old age.

“Here you go.” He handed the notebook to his grandmother with both hands.

She shook her head before gently pushing it back. “No, it's yours. Happy birthday little Fyodor.”

“But it’s not my birthday yet.” He said, confused.

“It is an early birthday gift then.”

Fyodor recalled that conversation with vivid detail. He didn’t know why she looked so sad when she gave him his birthday gift early and he didn’t feel like he should ask.

A month after that conversation, the last time he would see his grandmother was when his dad and a neighborhood uncle closed the lid on his grandmother’s sleeping body. He stood next to his mother who was crying, wiping her tears with her handkerchief. There were some other people that Fyodor had never seen, all dressed in black attire.

By the time the event ended, the sun had set and Fyodor laid on his grandmother’s bed still in the black pants and white dress shirt his mom stuffed him in that morning.

“You should be old enough to sleep in your own room now.” His parents told him with sad smiles.

Their home was small, with only four small rooms: the kitchen, the bathroom, his grandmother’s room, and his parent’s room where he would usually sleep in as well.

Fyodor stared at the ceiling for some time before deciding it was boring. He opened the wooden drawers by the bed and took out the small notebook his grandmother gifted him. He hadn’t known what to do with it yet and kept it in the drawers, favoring to read with his grandmother rather than writing or doodling in the blank book. It was still empty.

“Why not write about the things that you are thankful for?” His grandmother once told him when he asked about what to write. “If you fill this notebook with gratitude, I’m sure an angel will reward you for your sincerity.”

He opened the book, a pencil that he found laying around the house in his clumsy, chubby hands.

Page one, exactly twenty-seven lines.

I am thank ful for mom and dad.

I am thank ful for granma

In his clumsy six-year-old hands and equally clumsy English, Fyodor wrote.

...for moms worm milk.

...dads hugs.

...granmas story time.

...granmas pats.

...granma slep with me.

Tears welled up and soon came the loud crying.

A sound of skittering footsteps could be heard before Fyodor’s mother and father bursted in the room.

“Fyo! What’s wrong?”

“Mom! Where’s grandma? Where’s grandma?” As if the realization that Fyodor may not be seeing his dear grandmother again finally settled in, all he could do was cry and cry.

His mother pulled him into an embrace, stroking his head like how he remembered his grandmother would. His father would wipe away his streaming tears as he gently whispered soft hushes.

The notebook left open and forgotten on the bed had wet spots that would later be dotted with wrinkles.

Every week, on Sundays, Fyodor would write in his little, black notebook. Every week, with careful fingers flipping through the pages, one page at a time, not daring to accidentally skip one page.

...uncl Tom cot a fish. he gave it to us.

...mom baked fish for diner.

One week became one month, one month became one year, one year became two years, and eventually three.

...dad is home early.

...he helped me with spelling.

On one afternoon, while Fyodor was finishing up the page of the week, he heard a yelp from the kitchen.

...mom’s friend give her honey.

...dad played ball with me.

He immediately jumped out of the bed, throwing the bedroom door open to see his mom on the floor barely catching herself.

“Mom!”

As years went by, his mother came home later and later. She would always leave the house before he woke up for school but always left a plate of breakfast for him and his father. Lunch was always put in the fridge. He missed the little peck on the forehead and the “I love you”s before she left.

He noticed how she seemed to walk a little slower, how she would sleep more often when she wasn’t cooking or gardening, how she was becoming thinner and thinner.

Fyodor would always worry but his mother would always give a tired smile telling him to help her with the little things like setting the table or fetching a bucket of water for the little garden patch she grew outside the house.

His mother, who struggled to get up on her feet smiled to reassure him, “It’s nothing Fyo. I just tripped is all.”

A lie.

He grabbed his mother’s hand and pulled her to her bedroom.

“W-Wait, Fyo.” She’d protested but lacked the strength to fight back. “It’s alright. I’m fine. I was just dizzy and fell. I’m fine.”

Nope, he was not listening.

“Mom, go to sleep. You’re tired.” He pushed his nine-year-old strength and height.

“But I still have to water the plants.” She said. “And dinner.”

“I’ll water them and tell dad to get take-out.”

“But—”

“Go to sleep.” Fyodor pleaded.

Seeing the desperation on her son’s face, the mother had to comply. Fyodor pulled the blanket over her and seeing how her son continued to watch until she would fall asleep, she decided that she couldn’t go back to work.

She fell asleep within the first minute.

Fyodor tiptoed out of the room, making sure to close the door as quietly as possible and phoned his father telling him of the situation.

That day his father came home much earlier than he usually did.

“Thank you, Fyo.” His father patted him on the head in reassurance. “Don’t worry so much. Your mom’s just tired. No worries, she’ll be fine as long as she sleeps some more. I already called her workplace and they said that she can have the day off for tomorrow too.”

Fyodor looked up at his dad. His forehead and eyes had deep-set wrinkles and his smile looked tired like his mother as well.

He nodded.

“Come on, Fyo, I got dinner from that Chinese place that you liked. I’ll put your mom’s share in the fridge for later.”

As Fyodor quietly ate the dry brown rice with the equally brown chicken drowned in sweet sauce, a quiet wish was born.

‘I want to help mom and dad.’

But what can he do?

He was nine. He could help with the chores but he was already doing that. Fyodor wanted to help more.

Dinner was finished. Whatever leftovers weren’t finished were put in another bowl with saran wrap over it and placed in the fridge for tomorrow while the paper box the take-out came in were thrown in the trash.

The seconds ticked by as Fyodor stared at the ceiling before pulling out his notebook again.

He opened the lacey curtains, a keepsake from his grandmother, to let the moonlight in.

It was a whim. He opened the notebook to the page he left off, marked by a scrap of colored paper he brought home from a school art project.

...I wish mom and dad did not have to work so much.

With deep worry, time went on again.

Eventually, another year passed by and the Fydor reached the end of his book.

The last page, he wrote like how he’d always done it. With a delicate turn of the page and careful strokes of his pencil.

It felt weird. The last page.

When he first got it, he thought the book would go on forever, but here he was staring at the final page.

He flipped through the book from the beginning, the start of his routine, on the day his grandmother left.

Then the next, and the next, and the next. He could see the progression of his grammar getting better, his handwriting looking a tad neater, and his sentences getting straighter.

Had it already been four years?

By the time he reached the final page again, he noticed something. A pocket. This wasn’t there before.

Reaching in, he fished out a small slip of paper that felt like an old receipt.

Bottom drawer. Underneath the green box.

It was in what he could vaguely recognize as his grandmother’s handwriting.

Curiosity powered him.

The dresser where he first got hold of his little notebook has remained untouched over the years and the top had a noticeable layer of dust if he were to stand on the tips of his toes. His mother didn’t have the heart to sell any of his grandmother’s possessions and Fyodor never had the reason to or thought to move anything.

The drawer squeaked open, blowing some dust at his face for disturbing its rest. He fished out the moss green box that housed his notebook.

In it was a big letter, stuffed full of something to the point that the paper envelope was an inch thick.

“Mom! Dad! Look what I found in grandma’s drawer!”

Fyodor’s cherished 4.5” x 7” notebook, with exactly 208 pages, with exactly 27 lines.

Filled from the front and back with little bits of gratitude throughout the years.

His sincerity has been rewarded.

With a gift of $20,000.