Memories of grandmother.

“What’s Harley eating?” – a rottweiler greedily slurps a half-eaten something from a covertly cupped palm, well-hidden in the space between two arthritic knees.
“Nothing…” my grandmother replies, mischievous twinkles peek from underneath her half-hooded eyes.
“And what’s wrong with that?” – my father defiantly retorts, his voice lashing out.
“Nothing…” my grandmother replies, her gun barrel irises still silently smoking from a fire fight just moments before.

“It’s time… I’ve got to go.” – I shoulder my pack and hug her good-bye.
“What’s a matter?”
“Nothing…” my grandmother replies, waves of sadness swell and ebb behind her fogged portholes, only leaking slightly at the edges.

“Before we see her, you should know… She probably won’t remember you. She doesn’t even remember dad anymore.”
“Yeah… I know.”
Pushing into her room, I see her for the first time in years – and it’s been too long.
I see nothing in her eyes… Nothing at all.

View this story's 3 comments.