The Summer My Grandfather Dies I Plant a Pond

1

The pond opens wide, swallowing the sky until clouds float over the surface among bits of birch bark and maple leaf.

My son’s feet crackle loud across the gravel but quiet as he comes
to a halt at the spongy edge and leans down to find his face in the water.

Earlier, not long before we arrived, my mother spoke from the
front passenger seat, “Your grandfather doesn’t let anyone swim in the pond anymore. There’s no spring feeding it, so there’s no fresh water. He doesn’t know what’s in there.”

But I know what’s there: birch bark, maple leaf, tiny blue forget-me-nots, gravel, sky, clouds, and my son’s face quietly rippling apart.

2

I buy the interior liner for my pond. Thick black plastic turns water to
night when filled. I settle on a half whiskey barrel to enclose the liner and it is so heavy I have to ask for help carrying it out to my car.

I am halfway home when I smell alcohol: sharp, fermented and a
little bit sweet. When I open the hatch of my car and stick my face inside the rain-damp barrel, the scent intensifies.

My grandfather sometimes drank scotch: smooth, translucent
amber in a short glass. Ice cubes clinking each time he lifted it to his
lips. He’d sit in the family room, drink in hand, and look out the sliding doors, over the lawn to the pond.

3

I learned to swim in my grandfather’s pond. I’d wade out, mud squelching between my toes before the bottom dropped off to deeper water.

My grandfather held me around the waist. His calloused fingertips
pressed into the flimsy fabric of my swimsuit as I kicked furiously churning the murky water white.

Later, my cousin and I would jump off a stack of flat rocks, our joyful
bodies breaking through calm water over and over and over again.

4

The first time I order plants for my pond, my order reads, Two dwarf
cattails, one water lily and six snails.

But my mind is elsewhere. My mind is on my mother, planning my
grandmother’s funeral. My mind is on my grandfather, alone and quietly dying. My mind is on my pending journey north.

I forget to finalize the order.

5

My mother’s cousin asks about the forget-me-nots that flank the edges of the pond.

It is the day before my grandmother’s funeral and she wants to know
if forget-me-nots are easy to grow. She wants to know if these tiny, delicate blue flowers with the yellow centers will grow in Maine. She wants to know if she can dig some up and take them home.

I wander into the kitchen to find my mother hovering over my
grandfather’s shoulder.

Forget-me-not.

He’s been confused all day.

Forget-me-not.

He thinks today is my grandmother’s funeral.

Forget-me-not.

He asks, “What day is it?”

Forget-me-not.

He asks, “What time is it?”

Forget-me-not.

He asks, “What is everyone doing?”

Forget-me-not.

He says, “I need to get ready.”

Forget-me-not.

He says, “I need to go.”

6

The pond used to be stocked with rainbow trout every summer. When I went to stay with my grandparents, I’d follow my grandfather out into the garage to his workshop and he’d say, “Let’s feed the fish.”

We’d throw handfuls of fish food: smooth, brown pebbles that
rippled the smooth water. There would be a pause then a cacophony of slick, smooth bodies breaking the surface with such ferocious hunger you could barely make them out amongst all the splashing.

Now, the pond sits silent and still.

7

The second time I order plants for my pond, I’ve been home for one day: two dwarf cattails, one water lily, six snails and four forget-me-nots.

I place the order.

The next day, my grandfather dies.

8

I bury bare roots of cattails and forget-me-nots in soil and gravel.

I place plants in my night liner.

I add six snails.

I add ten goldfish.

My water lily sends off lily pads left and right.

My snails multiply.

The pond grows.

The clouds reflect on the surface.

The forget-me-nots push up, about to bloom.

My son drops food for the goldfish and they breech the surface, rippling our faces over the smooth, dark water.