Moths to the Flame

His teeth.

I still see his teeth, lips curled back, mouth open.

That onion — it must have been an inch and a half thick,

white, a little sulfurous, a little sweet.

Let me have that, he’d said,

and he put it back on where I’d taken it off.

And then he took a huge bite from that poolside burger, with the onion atop,

and it was pure pleasure for both of us, he, the grandfather, and

me, the grandson.

Those summers in Springfield.

Sent for a month to my grandparents, free of schedules and cares, age

perhaps 9? On that more quantitative front, the edges of memory dim.

But on the sensory edges of recollection, ah, there I touch the true thread.

The smell of hot tomato plants, taller than I, redolent in the August sun,

next to a proud air conditioning unit, running full bore and blowing

hotter air still.

The light of Illinois midsummer suffusing all, pressing down,

leaving the neighbors’ dog prone and panting

after a mere six retrievals of the favorite ball.

The sweet corn with butter.

The ice cream floats with real Fresca

(not that hideous, sugar-free stuff that the brand devolved into one day

when my teenage self had accidentally looked away).

The nights of Dirty Hearts with great aunts and uncles next to the bakery that

my great-grandfather came from Germany to build with a burgeoning

family the exact breadth of which was mysterious to me, but comforting

in its compass.

That burger.

It came from the grill.

Next to the pool.

Child of privilege, I would swim in the country club pool while my grandfather

played 18 holes of golf with business… people.

Unaccompanied for 3 or 4 hours (imagine — someone would be arrested for that

now, I suppose…), I made up diving games to amuse myself, and I was

baked with a tan that was so dark that even in a Wisconsin December, back home,

the lines were still starkly evident in the shower.

That day, he was turning the first 9,

and I had just ordered the burger, using his membership number, of course.

I didn’t mind onion, but this one was so big, I’d taken it off after the first bite.

Those burgers.

I still taste their charred surfaces — real — hand formed, seared with charcoal flames.

That faint whiff of chlorine from the pool, the summer sun raising

further scents from the paper plate. The red tomato, the white mayonnaise.

But I was happy to share.

I was proud — proud of a strong grandfather who laughed in the face of thick onion adversity!

Some days, he’d let me ride along on his round. (He taught me to play, actually, but that

was later.) At 9, I was a passenger in the golf cart, and a very happy one.

Scratched indelibly in? A deep bunker, below an elevated green. I’m holding the pin.

My grandfather swings, the sand rises in the air, the ball skitters a bit,

lands on the green, long putt to come. I nod — respectable, not bad.

But he waves at me from the trap,

“Toss that ball back to me, I can do better than that.”

So I did.

And he holed it.

Plop.

I thought he was the king of grandfathers.

I carried his coffin.

Many years later. In that same, hot Illinois sun.

The King is dead.

In between, ah, in between.

He gave me my grandmother’s car, in grad school, when the Alzheimers left her

unable to drive. Olds F-85 — so retro before that was cool.

He helped me pick out pearls

as a wedding gift for my children’s mother.

He diminished, declined, made decisions that disappointed his children,

and finally succumbed to a ravening cancer that left him

Empty.

Empty.

That man in the open casket,

that was not my grandfather.

No, to the contrary, he lives still — he’s laughing, handing me back the most

delicious hamburger I’ve ever eaten.

Somewhere, somewhen,

in Illinois

and safely in memory.

Christopher J. Cramer

July 21, 2015