Khaki shorts slowly uncovered knobby knees. He kneeled, legs tired and stricken by years of gout. My grandfather sat beside me on the sand. Deft movements by his hand dispersed pieces of bread along the shore and into the water.

“Why is that one sitting there not fighting the rest, Grandpa?” I asked, pointing quizzically to the large, green-rimmed mallard. He hovered, unmoving in the water.

“Don’t ask why, Ram,” he responded and continued his feeding.

Confused, I looked to the pond for answers. The young, smaller ducks fought voraciously for the bread. They plucked, thrashed, and squabbled for the large piece. Once caught, they turned their heads and ran back to the water to finish the piece in solitude.

“Bucha, no ask why, its no important. Look and watch, then understand,” he said, making me wonder even more how I could answer my own question and please him.

The large, green-rimmed mallard ate slower, yet had many pieces of bread to choose from. His eyes scanned left and right, he carefully chose his favorite piece and gulped satisfyingly.

“I still don’t understand, Grandpa. Why does he not fight? He looks so much stronger and bigger….”

“That large one no is a baby. He watches the babies fight and they let nice pieces go by. He waits quietly like he is dead and the bread comes to him. He is smart and knows how to eat. Bucha, you understand?”

“Yes, Grandpa.” Things were so simple once he pointed them out. “But I don’t like that big one. He is boring and lazy.”

In my younger years I asked why often to Grandpa. He saw what I would only hope to see. Being small and curious, answers were often never there, until Grandpa held my hand and led me to them. Growing older, Grandpa’s perception wore off and began to be a part of me. Learning that life was nothing but many still scenes or snapshots waiting to be analyzed left me changed forever. Hours would pass in misty mornings by that pond in his backyard, as he told me everything, by seeing past what I saw as still and deceased. He had a story, an explanation, which brought even standing water and rotting trees to life.

The wind howled through Grandpa’s backyard last night. Yesterday was a lackadaisical, sunny day that gave no warning to the energetic storm. We huddled last night by the fireplace, aromas of cloves and cardamom trickling from steaming cups of tea. The loud cracks of snapping branches and twigs punctuated the roaring wind. Jumping at every piercing shatter, I huddled closer to Grandpa.

The morning brought calm once again. The nighttime vigor gave way to a crisp, sullen Alaskan morning. Grandpa and I sat at the kitchen table, eating cream of wheat with caramelized cashews and apples. Rolling my spoon in my bowl, the mush was thick and lazy like molasses. Dragging the spoon into my mouth, the richness met saliva that liquefied and rushed the mixture down my throat. Grandpa peered out the window into the backyard, assessing the storm’s carnage. His stare fixed on a fallen tree lying on the porch.

“Come, Bucha, we must work,” he commented, leading me through the back door and onto the deck.

Morning sun shone down and warmed up my face as I lay sprawled on the back porch. Branches littered the backyard. Broken pine needles’ fresh smell stung my nose. A large tree trunk lay strewn on the deck near the kitchen window. Roots lay uprooted and dangling in the air, torn from the ground that provided the tree nourishment to grow. Branches protruded oddly, bent from the force of the fall. Crippled, the tree sat there helpless to the rotting processes of the afterlife.

Grandpa stood erect and powerful then straddled the tree trunk with his chainsaw whining in his hands. Plastic goggles became coated with sawdust as branch after branch fell victim to the saw. The weary, shawl-enveloped man of the early morning was replaced by a swift one with purpose and vigor.

At the other end of the deck, I watched him while playing with my small marble elephant and plastic dinosaurs. The elephant was my favorite toy. Its sides were painted with colorful flowers and designs, representing the silken cloth draped on war elephants of a Maharaja’s army from centuries ago.

As I pushed the elephant from side to side, I imagined it galloping through enemy lines, stampeding over ruthless invaders and saving every ancient Maharaja’s kingdom from conquest. The epic poems Grandpa recited to me before bedtime echoed from every gargantuan footstep of the envisioned beast. Stanzas from the Mahabharata and Ramayana told the story of the heroic lives of Ram and Krishna as they defended their kingdom atop the mighty animal.

Grandpa’s echoing voice told the story of the elephant as if its heart was pounding and chest heaving in my very hands.

It was midday now. Grandpa had reduced the tree to a heap of logs stacked against the side of the house. He picked up one log and looked at me, still playing with my elephant. Grandpa walked into the garage and I followed curiously. He sat at his workbench and turned on the band saw. His hands gripped the log gingerly as he sliced a thin circular cross-section.

Wisping smoke swirled around the tip of an etching iron as Grandpa held it. He pressed delicately, tracing curved lines into the bit of wood. A figure began to form, first the floppy ears, then the curved back and the long nose. The trunk arced high, as if the elephant in the etching was about to trumpet triumphantly. Grandpa was done now; I could tell because he started to carve his initials in the corner.

“For you,” smiling, he handed the engraved wood to me.

The slice of timber, which only minutes ago lay like a fallen soldier in a fatal battlefield, was now clutched in my grip. My forefinger ran down and across every pit and indention of every line etched into the fine grain. The grain and rings represented the maturity of the tree, the years of growth it had sustained.

The elephant’s silhouette embodied the fervor of ancient Maharajas from forgotten lore. Although departed, the tree lives on as I remember the day when it was transformed into something that would always be carried with me, reminding me of the celebration of all that was alive.

I cut the engine in a small parking lot. I left the car and stepped onto the grassy banks of the slough. The ground squished underfoot, inundated from the morning rain. A light mist rose up from the bank and loomed eerily at my feet, beckoning me to the water. Dense smells of biting frost and dead leaves accumulated under my nose, a reminder of the coming winter and following spring. A small group of waterfowl—ready to migrate—sat still, watching my move.

The water originated from a grassy knoll far off in the distance. My eyes met the river there. Slowly following the current, through every tide pool, eddy, and rocky outcropping, emotions accumulated with every wave peak and trough. After some time my gaze fell to my feet, to the river right before me.

The tranquil mallard and the tree were all perceived as dead to me at one point. The inactivity of the living animal, the inanimate object, and the concept of death had hit me first, however, led me to a new conclusion about the partnership between life and death.

Death and all of its synonyms brought a wave of new perception that was always alive—whether it was the foresight of the mallard or the fond memories spurred by a lifeless piece of wood. In death there was always a feeling of what was once alive or what life had once offered, a remembrance of the past and a hint at what would be lost for the future.

My grandfather lay frozen in his casket.

The coroner had done a noble job in preserving him as I knew him best. The colorful suspenders still hung close to his heaved shoulders. A handkerchief with the lonely initials “MLT” crept out of his shirt-pocket. His favorite tie, with the boat and fisherman, hung tight to his neck. Something was amiss, however. Stale and empty smells replaced aromas of menthol and eucalyptus from frequent applications of balm. The comforting odors were gone, yet the memories of them still lived on.

Overcome with emotion, my hand was outstretched, shaking. Instinctively, I reached into the casket, entering cautiously into a place of no return, where I felt the heaviness of all things alive as every memory flashed before me.