End of the line

Abstract

My grandfather, Edward Michel, died on October 1, 1993, just days before the first oranges of the season ripened. Until the weeks preceding his death, he'd pinch the green bulbs between his thumb and forefinger. "You're almost there," he would tell them. For the first time since he had returned from the army, Papa missed the fruit of his labor. His end marked the last—and first—time that I was allowed to enter his room. We didn't have a name for that space between my grandparents' bedroom and the home's single small bathroom. Whenever any of us talked about it, we said "the room" or "his room." I imagined him sitting in a straight-backed chair, his clothes thick with black mud from the field, poring over figures in a tiny spiral notebook.