Grandfather's Legacy

Matthew sat on the floor in his grandfather’s room holding a book and turning it round and round in his hands.

It was a little book. A little black book. A little, soft, black book that contained his grandfather’s secrets.

Grandfather had given it to him, the youngest, and, perhaps, the most foolish of the eleven grandchildren he had left behind on the eve of the longest journey in his life. “Why?” thought Matthew. The book stopped still a moment. “Why did he give it to me?” said Matthew in a whisper, grief welling in his heart. “I didn’t know he even knew my name. Why did he have to leave now?”

Matthew looked around the room, at all that was left of Grandfather. The room was just like him.

It had a big bed, one mariner’s trunk at its foot (both on a raffia carpet), a little three legged wooden bedside table with a watch, pocket change, his phone charger, a lamp, and a pen on it, a bookshelf with many books mostly maps and history books, and as many photos as could fit on the walls. All the people he had met, all the places he had been to, all of his family and nearest and dearest adorned the wall, covering every inch of space with framed pictures. Matthew chose a portrait of his grandfather and stared at it, silently contemplating the image. It was a picture of Grandfather on a horse at the old ranch. Several people stood below him in greeting. Of course there were people, thought Matthew. Everywhere Grandfather went people gathered.

Grandfather was said to be the wisest of the entire clan. He had been struck by lightning three times in his life. He said it was because he had a head of oak though at other times he joked, “it’s my magnetic personality.” People had told me that he was a medicine man, a very powerful one, sanctified by the lightning. All I could see was my grandfather, tall like pine, a belly full of stories, and a deep, easy laugh, smooth and sweet as honey wine that would warm you with its delight. His eyes were sharp – flint sharp-and would spark with intense emotion like a wild eagle. No one wanted to be at the other end of his tongue when he looked like that. But his eyes would soften too, like, when he saw kindness or natural beauty especially when he saw beautiful women. People were right to gather close to him. He was a hearth fire that warmed their hearts and sharpened their minds.

“I wish I had known him better, thought Matthew, and now there is no time left to do that. A maelstrom of grief welled up inside him. I would give everything in my life just to have him back, Matthew thought miserably. “I miss you Grandfather,” he said to the ghost in the room. “I miss you with all my heart and soul.” Tears started to form in Matthew’s eyes, his grandfather’s death replaying itself endlessly in his mind. It was all just too much. He turned away from the portrait. The book in his hands suddenly came into focus.

On the eve of his death, Grandfather had said to him, “the secret was in the book. The book was the key. The door was “– well, Matthew could not remember that part, but he did remember Grandfather pressing this into his hands. Why?

Matthew gazed at it helplessly. He flipped through the pages quickly at first and then more slowly. The pages smelled of him, of grandfather, and he wanted to breathe in every musty minute of scent. A few minutes later, he focused on the pages. Page after page of magic and mystery followed. The words to songs, dance steps, incantations, rituals, vision quests and journeys with holy men, drinks with sages gathered around a fire at night, long parties on the beach for an endless round of days with music, song, dancing and feasting. As he turned page after page, he felt a presence, an intimate presence he had never felt before.

The pages were filled with his grandfather’s journeys and wanderings. To the Arabian desert he flew where his Grandfather rode across the desert on an Arabian stallion and flew falcons with sheikhs. Grandfather had danced over the seas of the Mediterranean in a little Greek fishing boat, surfed the tides near Hawaii, and worshipped the full moon in Thailand on the beach with a thousand other people. Grandfather had taken tea, with Bedouin nomads and had eaten satay by the side of the road with Vietnamese fishermen. Grandfather had bargained with merchants in for spices, fragrant oils, and leather goods in the souls of Morocco. He had climbed the Atlas mountains and contemplated the stars with holy men, chanting zikr on the mountain caves from dusk until dawn.

Grandfather had worshiped the sun at Stonehenge with modern druids and sailed down the Amazon river. Apparently he walked the entire forest, admiring lemurs, jaguars, and hummingbirds before meeting the Kogi people of Columbia. And the pages went on and on. The Black Forest of Germany, the waterfalls of Samothraki, the Great Pyramids of Egypt, and hanging gardens of ancient Babylon.

Page after page were filled with wonders and marvels. There seemed to be nowhere Grandfather had not been and nothing he had not done. “This little book has seen so much more of life than I have,” said Matthew with wonder. And then he reached the last page.

Time stopped still for a moment. It was a page that held another piece of paper folded into quarters. With great care, Matthew unfolded a beautiful pencil and ink drawing of his grandfather almost as radiant as its living subject. It was breath taking. The all seeing eyes and the presence of his grandfather were meticulously captured. His heart was completely lifted out of its storm of grief. He was infused with his Grandfather’s presence.

Then, he spied a tiny arrow pointing to the back of the picture. On the back, the artist had signed it to Matthew – from Grandfather, Matthew Lightning Oak. “I had no idea we were of the same name!” exclaimed Matthew. A second revelation soon followed.

Next to the signature was another arrow pointing to a little pocket hidden in the back of the soft cover. Matthew’s eyes widened at its sight. There, a tiny key was hidden with a tiny scrap of paper which read “to unlock your dreams.” The key could only unlock one thing. Matthew ran with it to the trunk in his grandfather’s room and opened it. Inside was grandfather’s silver, dollars, half dollars, and dimes, from the early 1900s, silver jewelry from the Yemen, Morocco, India, and silver daggers and prayer beads from the desert dwellers. They were worth a small fortune. Stamps in mint condition, along with more diaries and journals of his travels complete with sketches of people he met and maps of where he had been, were also included in the trunk.

Then he found a large fortune. An old cigar box of stocks and bonds and statements from an investment agency were all neatly lined up and with Grandfather's name on them - and Matthew's.

"My name," Matthew whispered to himself. He was set for the rest of his life. "Why?" he wondered. "He didn’t even know me," Matthew mused.

And then he remembered. Matthew. They were both named Matthew and were dreamers.