The orange sky was splotched with grey and blue, as the sun sank below the ocean. The ground was a lively dark green that faded into the oxidized iron rocks, exposed to the salt spray. Overlooking the freshly painted white picket fence, I could see the infrequent ebb and flow of the ocean waves. A stream that ran parallel to me produced a light, splashy flowing sound. Extraordinarily lively and beautiful, for land with buried endings. Bright orange flares from the sun and rushing water seemed to fade into the background as I breathed, "Here is your spot." My grandfather and I were close. He spent his days circling the town that he lived in, trying his best to keep up with everybody and everything that was happening. Everyone knew him from the navy blue colour of his Toyota Tacoma truck. His birth name was Leonard, but most knew him by his middle name, Ross. I knew him as Pop. One memory that sticks with me is of a time he took me to get ice cream. There was a small convenience store known as Woody's, the best place in town to get ice cream. Woody's was granted its name as to allude to the owner of the store. This white building overlooking the bay was extremely weathered, even at that time. Upon entry, a pungent smell of stale alcohol and smoke overcame me, but quickly faded as the excitement over their delicious ice cream replaced it. Often I would try one of their 160 flavours of ice cream, but on this particular day, I was feeling plain, a vanilla soft serve type of plain. Pop went to the back of the store where they sold the beer, picking out the cases he needed for the next couple of days. His eyes were squinted in confusion when he saw that my unlicked ice cream was melting. The younger lady that was working the front of the store smiled and told him that he owed $2.49. My grandfather started to laugh his nervous laugh as he said: "I thought you were going to pay for it." A tired mid-afternoon was spent at the bedside of my pop. We spent almost an hour talking about his life. We spoke about playing cowboys and Indians as a child, shooting gunpowder and bearings from a copper tube as a teen, his appliance fixing business as a young adult, the trailer park he owned during my childhood, the family dog that was given to him when his hair was white and all of it in-between. The conversation concluded with a statement of how proud he was of me and a request. This request visiting him when his final day was long over every time I had a chance, accompanied by the call to be at church the day he would not return. Long before this request, he took me on one of his regular truck rides. We went all over town that day. There was one place in particular by a large hill. The hill had a large cross on it, this was to commemorate people from that town who lost their lives at sea. Overlooking the ocean with rugged beauty, he pointed out an area where he believed there was a treasure. The area he pointed out was a large area and very general, but the treasure was held there, for sure. Just after that, he took me to a cemetery where his relatives rest, just adjacent and a small hike from the memorial hill. He took me down to the bottom, and we overlooked a white picket fence that needed to be painted; the sound of a soft flowing stream could be heard in the background. The grass was green where we stood, not a headstone for ten feet. It looked bare in this part, but as beautiful as ever. The ocean was still, and the sky was calm. This is where the treasure must be buried, I thought to myself. Pop took a glance out over the ocean and, with a breath, declared: "Here is my spot." I never got to go to his funeral in August 2018, as it was in his birthplace of Twillingate, Newfoundland. He is still very well known to everyone around him as someone who was significant to their town. He will forever be known to me as an essential man in my life who taught me valuable lessons. Every year since his passing, I have visited his resting spot, and that tradition does not have an end in sight. The treasure that is buried will always be in my heart.   Submitted By: Carter Anstey