Come Back to the Farm

Damion

I shrugged. “I work in an office. When I’m not working, I’m taking care of Oliver.”

He smiled at the mention of my son’s name. “How old is he now?”

“Five, Grandpa. You know that.”

“Does he look like the old man?” he asked proudly. “I let him have my name. He better look like me.”

 I chuckled. “He takes after me.”

“And you take after me,” he said.

I shrugged. “I suppose. How’s the farm?”

He turned his blue eyes on me. “The farm is fine. It could be better. I’m hoping to change that soon.”

“What happened?” I asked with concern. “You didn’t tell me you were having a hard time.”

“I’m not. Just needed to change a few things. It’s handled.”

He had always been a man of few words. Maybe it was why I had become an avid reader throughout my childhood. My mother had died of ovarian cancer when I was five and my father had been killed in a car accident shortly after. That left my widowed granddad to raise a little boy who was shy, lonely, and suffering from insurmountable grief.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” I asked him.

He scoffed. “No. I don’t know if you could anyway.”

“What does that mean?” I asked defensively.

“It means I just witnessed you getting disrespected by a man that isn’t worthy of licking your boots. Then again, I suppose you don’t wear boots anymore. You’re uptown. You’re too clean. You’re uppity, wearing your fancy suits and sitting in this big office. You don’t have that look of fire in your eyes. You’re not happy here. I can see that.”

I squirmed under his scrutiny. “Grandpa, it’s a good job. I like my job.”

“Since when did you like sitting in a goddamn office all the time?” he asked with a scowl.

“It isn’t that I don’t like it, but I need to pay the bills.”

“You could work the farm,” he offered.

“I’m not a farmer,” I reminded him.

“Yes, you are. It’s in your blood. You were raised on a farm. I let you go off to college, thinking you’d come back. It’s been eleven years.”

“I fell in love with the city,” I told him. “Oliver likes it here.”

He scrunched up his face. “Bullshit. You live in an apartment. That poor boy doesn’t even have a backyard. What does he do all day?”

“He’s in school, then an after-school program, and then we play games or read books.”

He shook his head. “That’s too bad.”

I rolled my eyes. I had been taught to respect my elders. “Grandpa, he’s a good kid. He’s healthy and is doing fine. Let me clear my schedule and we can pick up Oliver and go out to dinner.”

He gave me a soft smile. “I’ve got to be getting back soon.”

“How long have you been in town?”

He shrugged. “Not long, but you know I don’t like being in the city.”

“You won’t let me treat you to a steak? We’ve got some of the best steakhouses in the country here.”

He scoffed. “Bullshit. You’ll never get a better steak than what I have on the farm. Fresh and fed right. You’d remember that if you ever came home.”

“Can I fly you out for a longer visit in the near future?”

His smile was sad. “We’ll see,” he said, nodding his head. “We’ll see.”

I studied the man I had thought was invincible for the majority of my life. He was big and strong and tough as nails. I had idolized him before my parents died, and then after he took over the role of being dad, mom, and grandpa, my idolization had faded. I respected him, but he was less of an idol and more of a parental figure.

“Maybe I’ll see about coming out to visit this summer. I’ve got some vacation pay and Oliver will be out of school.”

“Sure, sounds good,” he said in a noncommittal tone. He got to his feet.

I followed suit. “I really wish I could convince you to stay longer,” I said, walking him to the door.

“Me too, son, me too. Take care of yourself and that little boy.”

I stopped him and gave him a quick hug. He wasn’t the hugging type, but I did it anyway. I had become more of a hugger since having Oliver. Hugs were important. I walked him to the elevator and we said our goodbyes again.

I walked back to my office and sat down. Something felt off. I hated that he was disappointed in me. He had some high standards to live up to. It all seemed to come so easy to him. He was strong and capable and such a powerhouse. I always felt like I would be in his shadow. Nothing I ever did could ever compare to him.

“Shit,” I mumbled, feeling like a loser.

By most standards, I was a successful man. I was an editor of a popular magazine. I had a great job, made decent money, and had a perfect little boy. My life was good. Slightly lonely, but good. I had thought when I graduated from NYU, he would have been proud of me. Instead, he’d seemed disappointed that I had chosen to stay in New York. He didn’t seem to care that I had found a woman I loved. We’d gotten married and had been looking forward to starting a family. Grandpa had said all the right things, but I knew he wasn’t truly happy for us.

He had expected me to take over the farm. I had thought I would too, but then I came to New York and my world changed. My eyes were opened to something new and different and exciting. Going back to the small town and the farm hadn’t been appealing. Ann, my wife, was a city girl through and through. She never would have been happy on the farm.

Ann was gone, I reminded myself. That excuse was no longer valid.