Rosewood

Rosewood

A Story by ben

I am five months away from being six years of age when the strike finally ends. Peering out the front room window, the neighborhood is lit like it is the fourth of July. Somewhere out there along with everyone else, is Mom and Grams celebrating a hard fought, inch forward. Turning away from the exuberance of those lucky others, eyes fall to Grandpa tapping his pipe of burnt remains into a nearby ashtray. Catching me looking, he goes to reloading and, after striking a match, I wait as the flame dips with each draw. The smell is enticing, cherrywood, I think. Pulling the pipe away from his mouth, Grandpa points to Grandma’s chair and climbing up onto it, I like that it smells of her perfume.

How I get to be here in their home, is that Mom and Dad had a fight. One that led to a policeman taking Dad away. When all is said and done, Mom and I end up leaving most of our belongings scattered around the rented apartment. “We’re never coming back so take one thing only.” With a marble in my front pocket, Mom and I walk the mile to Grandma’s. “Just for the night,” has turned into a week now and, being in the moment, I think about Dad. About how he hasn’t called not even once when Grandpa interrupts by asking me, “Thinking about your Pa?”

Shy in telling about what makes me sad, I give up enough that it shows. Picking up on it, Grandpa goes to rocking in an easy manner until he stops long enough to throw to the wind. “He’ll be alright. No need to worry. Besides, now that the strike is over, your mother is back to work. If anything, that will bring him around.” He goes to rocking again and I to knowing that I am about to have another bad dream of how Grandpa ends up dying. Letting it play out in my mind until the very end, what seen, captures my tongue in knowing that there is nothing Grandpa or I, can do to change this.

Come next Thursday, and, after sharing an early dinner that has Grandpa indulging in a few stout beers, he gets up out of his chair and in looking over to me, he says, “I’ll be right back.”

All at once comes a wave of heat that leaves me feeling as though I am going to puke any second. Instead, dry tears come; my hands ball into fists as I bite my lip in knowing he won’t ever sit in his chair again.

Two days after this, we are on our way in joining others in paying last respects. The somber mood in the car has mom and grandma talking about him. “Remember when he took you to his private fishing spot? You had the biggest smile.” I get that this is of a time forgotten. Of how such a tragedy, stirs up buried memories. I’m getting used to it now as so many others have come before and after Grandpa but, the pain of it all, never fades. Dry tears and balled fists, my armor.

 

 

 

 

Since after that, days melt together and, on this particular day of complaining of having nothing to do, Grandma sets up an easel. “Your Mom enjoyed painting. I thought maybe you would too.” Right then, a block falls into place. Staring at the blank canvas, Dad is the monster crawling over the faraway in being all spider-like with fangs dripping of blood. Done with it and knowing I must, the next painting is of Mom in a field of wildflowers. She has a basket in the crook of her arm as she goes to picking for the table back at home. Finished, Grandma is there with another blank canvas. Not a word comes as I hold that brush in hand before detailing the reasons why I hate him so. Of him leaving me to feel like I am nothing more but a fertilized egg. Taking off my smock and hanging it up, Grandma eyes me curiously as she murmurs, “Child. What have you done?”

 

 

 

 

 

© 2019 ben


My Review

Would you like to review this Story?
Login | Register




Request Read Request
Add to Library My Library
Subscribe Subscribe


Stats

45 Views
Added on July 14, 2019
Last Updated on July 14, 2019

Author

ben
ben

Writing
Rosewood Rosewood

A Story by ben


Rosewood Rosewood

A Story by ben


Rosewood Rosewood

A Story by ben