I remember sitting at the kitchen table in my grandparent’s house. My grandpa sat at the head of the short table, and I sat at his right hand. I have strong memories about eating a particular food — meatloaf.

My grandma’s meatloaf smelled earthy and moist. I didn’t like meatloaf much when I was young. I still don’t. Part of the problem is meatloaf doesn’t look like meat. When Grandma served meatloaf, I cringed because she expected me to eat whatever she gave me. She had raised my mom to eat everything on the plate. If I didn’t eat everything, I wouldn’t get to eat dessert.

I remember a specific occasion when I was served meatloaf. I added ketchup and ate slowly, but I couldn’t eat the last mouthfuls. For whatever reason, the last bit was always the hardest. I gagging, my eyes watering and jaw clenched.

My grandpa noticed my distress, and his brow creased. Finally Grandpa scooped it onto his plate when Grandma wasn’t looking. It was our secret. Sometimes it’s strange to remember that my grandpa was a soldier in World War II. He always treated me with gentleness when I knew him.

One time, I was downstairs alone in my grandpa’s office. I was eight or ten, old enough to love blades and young enough to mishandle them.

A Smith Corona typewriter sat to the left of the desk. The machine was probably the one he used to type up his memoir. On the wall hung a Nazi officer saber that had a lion head with red eyes on the handle. I believe he saw the sword as a symbol of the Nazi’s defeat and surrender. When I was older, I used to take the saber down and swing it around.

The drawers of the desk were filled with fascinating objects. A magnifying glass. Metal paperweights. There was a small knife in one of the drawers too. It might have been a letter opener. The blade was thin and flat, and the casing was a bright color — white with orange or red.

I don’t remember what I was doing, but suddenly I was bleeding. I panicked.
I ran upstairs and hid like a wounded animal — I don’t remember my reasoning. I crouched behind a large stuffed chair in the living room and clutched my sliced finger. I was ashamed and afraid.

My grandpa must have wondered where I was or had found the knife. He walked through the house and called my name. Concern laced his voice.

“Jonathan? Jonathan?”

He found me. I don’t remember exactly what happened after that. I didn’t need to go to the hospital. But I know I felt safe. The scar is still on my finger. It looks like a crease, but the scar runs against the grain. I’m glad I cut my finger with that knife because it helps me remember my grandpa’s love.