Fiction, Love
Grandfather’s First Love
His childhood home called to him
Grandfather stood at the edge of the castle grounds. A fringe of down feathery white hair crowned his bald head. His back, though naturally stooped with age, stood almost erect as he dug a fist into one bony hip for balance. His eyes were heavy-lidded, yet twinkled — sparks dancing on quick waters.
The sun dipped last light on Grandfather’s shoulder, bowed its throne to the night, and spilled stars across the sky in a glittering net. Balancing against his cane, Grandfather lowered himself to the ground beneath a tree older than himself. There, bathed in starlight and moonlight, Grandfather sank back into the heather as he‘d done many times in his boyhood.
Grandfather closed his eyes, breathing deep the tangy smell of life, evening dew, and damp earth. The breath was his last.
A ghost of the breath, frozen in the midnight air, passed Grandfather’s lips and carried to the breeze. It flew past stone and mortar and swam through halls that once echoed laughter.
It rested in bed chambers that were the place of birth and death. It kissed once, every nook and cranny, every crack and hidden area until it spread and lived, dancing with the spirits it had been lonely for in life.
The children found Grandfather beneath the tree, smiling.
He’d come home at last.
Resources
https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/grandfather
https://www.amazon.com/Grandfather-Want-Hear-Your-Story/dp/1086060326
https://www.nytimes.com/2020/09/09/magazine/i-think-of-my-grandfather-every-time-i-make-kofta.html
