The Last Word at Christmas

A Christmas story about grandpas, grandsons, and Scrabble.

  

 

 

 

The Last Word at Christmas

 

Copyright © 2009 by Kherry McKay

  

 

 

I would like to stand with Christmas. Instead of it overwhelming me, I’d like to overwhelm it, hold it like a friend. Ho-ho-ho’s should come from my belly this year, for I am as jolly as Santa. . . .

 

After all, I remember all our family Christmases. Why is it, a family decides to remember lost things during the month of lights? My grandfather remembered a long word. He was playing Scrabble. It was a very long word, and in the middle of its remembrance one of the letters fell to the linoleum floor.

 

He bent down to get it. And it was then that a massive stroke visited him in his apartment like a pall, like the ghost of Future Christmas. He fell over.

 

My grand-mom chided him for having too much whiskey in his eggnog. “Paul! Paul!”

 

Somehow, as a ten-year-old, I saw the scene more fully. I knew in a few moments there would be paramedics and there would be a hubbub; there would be the circular-red glow of ambulance lights dancing on the ceiling.

 

The women began to cry — my grand-mom, my mom. From my chair at the table, I could make out the word grandpa was trying to spell. But it could have been any one of several words.

 

There was "Laughter." When I was sure that was the word he was thinking of, my eye caught something else. He had an 'S,' too. I knew my grandpa was an excellent Scrabble player. I knew, he could play "Slaughter." How, I thought, could "laughter" exist inside the word "Slaughter?"

 

I couldn’t take my eyes away from the Scrabble board.  As I thought, things got crazy. The ambulance people came. Before that, my dad tried to pull grandpa over to the couch. My dad, who always knew what to do, had a look of horror on his face.

 

And still, I looked at the Scrabble game lit by the Christmas tree lights. I thought if we could just play the game, nothing would change. Christmas would come as it was supposed to. All would be calm, all would be bright.

 

There was loud talking. I looked up. My mother was trying to say something. Her mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear her words. I looked over to my grand-mom. They wanted me to move the Scrabble game; to put the card table up and make room for the ambulance people. Everyone was trying to get my attention. They shouted my name, but it seemed as if the words came from another world, as if they were on TV and the volume was down.

 

"Maybe," I said. "Maybe, he was trying for double points."

 

"What?" my mother asked.

 

"He won. Let’s say he won."

 

"Yes," she said. "He won. Let’s get everything out of the way."

 

The rest of the night was filled with strangeness. We drove to the hospital, passing houses with Christmas lights and crèches and snowmen. It was very quiet in the car. I stayed at the hospital all that night. I didn’t fall asleep like I was supposed to. My sister did, but I didn’t. In the morning, they said my grandpa had lived. He was paralyzed on one side of his body for the rest of his life, but he lived.

 

I told him later that I’d figured out the word he was trying to spell that night. He seemed to remember it too.

 

"Grandpa, you were going to play 'Slaughter,' right? Weren’t you?"

 

He looked at me for a long time. Then he said something I’ll never forget. "Double points are marvelous, son, but when confronted with life’s scrabble, always play 'Laughter.' It will keep you in the game."

 

And he stayed with us for twelve more Christmases. Each year, we played Scrabble. I watched the words he would play at the end of a game. One year it was "hilarity." Another, it was "joyous."

 

Toward the end, his words got shorter and shorter. The very last Christmas he was with us, he had to have help putting his letters on the board. His hands weren’t moving right.

 

I watched him carefully. He had the chance to win. He let me look at his letters. He had "preachy," and it was for double points. And he had an extra 'E.' He started to put his letters up, showing me where he wanted them. Then he paused, and asked me to take off the 'R' and the 'H.'

 

With his last 'E,' he put up a smaller word: Peace. He smiled right at me. My grandpa left the Earth with "peace" on his mind, not "preachy." And that was my favorite moment of that Christmas and of all the Christmases I can remember with my family.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Take a look at more of Kherry McKay's writing in the Cafe!

 

 

Reviews

[justdandy]

This is the best grandpa story that I heard. Thank you for sharing...

[Calypso]

Aww so sweet. These are the memories that make Christmas worth the while.

[Salvatore Buttaci]

Congratulations for winning the Heart-Warming-Christmas Contest!

Sal

[Creepy Swine Guy]

This story is spectacular. The word Grandpa was playing serves as a "hook" it carries us ... no, pulls us along to where the dividend is paid. And what a wonderful dividend it is. I have no suggestions other than ... keep writing!

This goes into my favorites.

[RENEEJ]

I love this story! It's a new Christmas classic. Keep writing!