That selfish storm broke out on a chilled sunny morning. Looking out a window and seeing that brilliant gold circle would have fooled anyone. However, one step outside would send cold whirls of wind through your body, freezing you before you could even think of stepping again. Unfortunately, I didn’t even need that step outside to feel piercing cold winds come over me.
I stood stiff in front of my parents. The cold that poured through my body ached and I felt like I needed to roll up into a little ball on the hard wooden floor in front of them. The words they threw at me rang through my ears, and kept throwing themselves at me. The throws got harder and harder. They didn’t mean to hurt me, but those disgusting words shattered every bit of composure that I could have.
“Your Grandpa Baier passed away late last night,” my parents managed to choke out. Any little squeak, crack, or voice immediately turned into background noise.
Nothing mattered to me anymore, absolutely nothing.
I shuffled off to my room, my face turning a bright shade of red. It felt like the sun’s rays were beating down on me. Anger took over, and I began pounding my feet into the ground. I was becoming a selfish storm. The powerful winds slammed the wooden door to my room shut. Thick drops of rain pooled up in its eyes and blinded it. Its spinning whirls grasped pillows, books, and pictures. Its strength smashed, ripped, and chucked any object within reach of its funneling madness. Running over anything in its way, it turned my room into a disastrous wreck.
My parent’s strategy was to let it wear out and unwind itself, which eventually worked. After about an hour, my storm and its chaotic winds slowed and eventually everything was still, calm. I studied the wreckage of my colorful room and collapsed flat on my floor. My red face had flooded away by the rain pouring from my eyes. I felt weak and lonely.  How could this be happening? I saw him three days ago. Sure, he appeared to be a newborn baby, unable to wobble around with his legs, not yet sure of how to spatter out words, and unaware of his environment; but he was still there. He batted his eyes, breathed, mumbled nonsense, and functioned as best as his cancer would allow him to. As I continued to ache and sob, my grandpa’s words echoed through my ears.
“If you show weakness, people will take advantage of you.”
“If you don’t work hard enough, life will kick you in the a**.”
And my favorite sounded louder than any of the other lines, “You are the toughest Baier girl, but somehow give the softest hugs.” I was craving a warm Baier hug from him right about now. I continued to rip at the seems while I thought back to my favorite days with him. I took myself all the way back to March 2005.
My grandpa turns the knob on the metal door to the small old-fashioned room my sister and I slept in, while visiting their farmhouse. The door squeals, like the sound a cat makes when someone yanks on their tail. He gently brushes my arm, awakening me from a deep comfortable sleep. I jump out of bed, sliding on my shiny yellow rain boots. I refused to remove them from my feet at that age, no matter the outfit or weather. He feeds me a bowl of stale cereal and a slice of homemade bread drenched in sugary jam. We skip down the stairs and load the potbelly fireplace with freshly cut wood that’s stacked in the garage. Back up the stairs we go and out the back screen door, letting it slam behind us. We head for the big red barn titled WAYSIDE ACRES. The morning was a little chilly and damp, but the sun made its best effort to reach for the sky. The cows amble around the pasture or lay their plump bodies on the ground and rest. We reach the barn and go about the morning chores. My strong grandpa worked hard, and although I attempted to match his strength, I often fell short. After awhile we open the big red barn and enter, my grandpa begins to chat with the cows, knowing it makes me giggle. I follow his every step over to a sturdy wooden chair. Next to the chair lie his clumpy black work boots. He squats in the chair and slips off the dirty brown tennis shoes that he put on earlier this morning. I watch him carefully as he pulls on the hefty boots and laces them up with precision. I wait patiently for what comes next.
“Alright come on up!” he shouts.
I climb up into his lap and lay my small head on his chest. We sit like that for a while and surprisingly it is silent. I listen to his pounding heartbeat and his deep breaths, attempting to match my inhales and exhales with his. This sturdy wooden chair we cuddle on sits in beams of warm sunlight. In the beams floats dust particles that glimmer when they are struck with the suns rays. It is a peaceful warm place to lie. I was content and happy my crooked teeth smiling brightly. We sat like this for a long time just my grandpa and me.
My dad knocks on the door and a shadow of guilt hides me. I never once comforted him. I imagined losing my own dad and then tossed it far away within seconds because of that insanely painful thought. I never bothered wrapping my long string arms around him for a warm hug, and I never murmured the words “I’m sorry.” How selfish of me to throw myself around in pain, instead of helping him with his. Tess you dumb girl. I sprint to my door and fling it open, nearly knocking over my dad. I gave him one of my soft hugs and let a long apology flow from my mouth. This day was also the first time I had ever seen tears spill down my dad’s face.
Instead of being angry with me, something strange occurred. My dad lied down on the rough white carpet that covered my room floor. He placed himself in the exact spot I lied in earlier. I snuggled up next to him resting my head on his chest. I felt the deep breaths, and tried to match my inhales and exhales with his. Just my dad and me. From there, he supported me through my first experience of losing a loved one, and helped me to see this horrific situation in a new light.
That old wooden chair still sits in the barn, the beams of sunlight hitting it. The particles of dust still glimmer in the sun’s rays. Except the chair is no longer visited by my grandfather and I, just me. From time to time I go and curl myself up in a ball on the chair, trying to comfort it. In the end, it comforts me. It sooths me and allows me to hear his breaths and heart beat once more. Once more I try to match it, breathing in and breathing out.