Road to Remain

“Well, I guess this is goodbye,” I whispered, my hand brushing against the rough granite. Engraved in it were words I wished I had never read:



No one knew what happened. The only thing we were sure of was that he got what he asked for: a long, happy, healthy life.

Healthy – maybe that was pushing it. He was always a bit heftier, but he was big on bike riding. He was the one that bought me my first bike, taught me how to ride without training wheels; he even introduced me to his favorite road to bike on.

I knew that today, of all days, I had to visit the road. It was time.

The wind was soft, gently brushing against my skin. The spring air was crisp and light, bringing all of the trees surrounding me to life. I had never seen them so bright and alive before. My legs peddled at a steady speed, gliding across the smooth pavement, mindlessly following the darkened line that had been made from my frequent bike rides down that very path.

As I took in the beautiful scenery, his words echoed in my head. “You're never going to make it to the end of the road,” he'd say before taking a drag. “Not with that attitude. You gotta believe.”

I'd clear my throat as the smoke from his cigarette polluted the air around us. I wondered aloud, “In myself?”

After a short silence I'd repeat, “Believe in myself, you mean. Right?”

No answer. Nothing but the smirk playing on my grandfather's lips and a huff of laughter. I never knew what to make of it; not until he introduced me to bike riding. He always said that I needed a hobby and that “a little exercise never did do nobody no harm!”

I laughed out loud, though my eyes started to water. My grandfather, my godfather, my dad – he was all I ever had. Being the only male figure in the family for me to learn from, I looked up to that man and was inspired by his every action. Every word he muttered I held on to and tried to mimic the mysterious confidence behind each vowel, each consonant. He taught me more than anyone could even imagine.

On this road, ten years ago, Grandpa taught me how to bike ride.

On this road, eleven years ago, Grandpa taught me how to be face my fears.

On this road, twelve years ago, Grandpa taught me how to believe.

“Just follow the road, Johnny.”

“But Grandpa, what's at the end of the road?” my ignorant eight year old self would ask. “What if it's something bad? What if I get lost?”

All the 'what ifs' – they never ended. He'd reply gruffly, “Do you think there's anything bad out there?”

I considered this for a while. I was unsure of the seriousness behind it. He could have been asking me a trick question, in which case it had a correct answer. But all I said was, “No.”

“Why don't you think so? You've never been back there.”

This time, I answered more quickly, though not as smoothly. “Because I...I...believe.”

My instincts. Something deep inside me told me that nothing was going to happen. But it wasn't as simple as no monsters hiding in the foliage. No, that part of town had always been safe. It was much deeper. I believed that I could go through with it; that I could make it to the end of the road without looking back. I even believed that I would be able to move on if, God forbid, something happened to Grandpa.

I knew that I would be safe as long as I believed in not only myself, but in Grandpa. I was going to become a man soon and I would have to learn to move on. But the road would always bring us together. The road would become our spiritual connector. Heaven and Earth met on this road and I believed from that day on, that I would never be alone again.

And I was right. A tear streamed down my cheek as I came to a halt at the end of the road, overlooking a beautiful mountain range. There was nothing to be afraid of. No monsters, no anger. Grandpa was never going to leave me.