My small, seven-year old index finger squeaked as I dragged it against the moisture on the glass. I completed an upside-down heart that obtained a smiley face within it. Coincidentally it also happened to be upside down. It made this heart have the highest level of depression I had ever seen. This heart was in desperate need of petting a long-haired teddy bear hamster, miniature comfort llama, or the insanely soft fur of a C.C.C., a caramel colored chinchilla. Any of these would equally suffice due to their excessive cuteness.
The warmth of my breath began fogging up the window for the fifth time in less than ten minutes. The well-directed exhale pushed beyond my lips until the window lacked all transparency. This time I felt my finger draw a decent looking bird, and I nodded slightly with contentment. I watched as the same finger then drew a large oak tree directly in front of it, so close that given the bird's current flying speed, it unfortunately would not be able to avoid hitting the tree.
"Could you stop it?" My mother's old-people voice quickly thrust through the dense air in my direction and stabbed into my ear like a well-crafted European Ox Tongue spear. The exact kind of spear, in fact, that I had learned about yesterday in school. I thought it was a little weird that Ms. Patterson was reading us 'Weapons of History' for mat time, but not as weird as how quickly my elderly mother's voice could travel.
I looked a few feet over at my twenty-five year-old mom. "Yep, she could go any day now," I thought to myself. She was carefully placing items from the dresser-top into a small cardboard box. "Stop what?" I asked rhetorically. "He's dead, what do you want me to draw, happy faces, and happy birds, and happy rainbows, happy-"
She cut me off mid-sentence, acknowledging that I may keep going and honestly speaking, she definitely made the right call. "I know he was your grandpa, he was also my dad. I miss him as well, but he doesn't want us to be sad. He wants us to remember all the fun things we did with him; the times he took you to the park, when he taught you how to play chess." My vision became blurry, so I turned from her and I fogged up the window once more. I hoped this distraction would persuade my tear ducts to knock it off. I drew a chess piece, then put a crown on top, dictating its position as king.
"Here, will you run this up to the attic and put it with the others?" She lifted the box she had been packing from the dresser and lowered it down to me. Taking it reluctantly, I began walking through the hall to the attic ladder. It was usually folded up and sat level with the ceiling making it un-noticeable except for the pull-string that hung from it. We had it lowered down all day because of the many boxes we had been putting up there. It wasn't the easiest to go up a slanted ladder while holding a box, but after doing it all afternoon I was starting to get a system that was working for me.
The two attic walls leaned in from the ground at forty-five degree angles, racing upward towards one another. Each wall eagerly grasped the other as they met at the single highest point of the ceiling. The dim light seemed to have a pulse, giving the room a sense of quiet motion and dismal life. A life that lay on its deathbed, breathing its last gasps of essential air. I looked at the light's surging illuminescence as it went from dim, to dimmer, then back to dim. The light fixture's bulb continued this repetitive pulse as I carried the box to the far wall, placing it on top of another box, among many others. The boxes were labeled with my mom's perfect handwriting. 'GRANDPA'S PHOTO ALBUMS', 'GRANDPA'S KNICK KNACKS', 'GRANDPA'S SWEATERS', and so on.
I remember being mad when my grandpa first came to stay with us. He was taking my bedroom, so I had to go to the small side office where my dad kept his desk. Shelves lined with business books bordered the walls. That memory was nearly forgotten. In the last few years, he had been so much fun to live with. He quickly became my best friend as he brought me treats everyday when he came to get me from first grade. Sometimes chocolates, sometimes caramels or taffy. It didn't matter what it was, they were all delicious and I was always excited to see him. I began thinking of just the other day when he was supposed to pick me up from school. I grabbed my backpack and ran out the classroom door with my usual exaggerated grin, expecting to see him, only to have it quickly fade away.
He would never tell me to hurry while walking home, unlike my parents. We would often stop at the park to play for a while. Sometimes we would both swing, or he would push me on the merry-go-round, or he would simply sit on the concrete bench and watch me go down the slide multiple times. Before bed he would read me 'Prepping Down the Rabbit Hole', our favorite book. This last year he taught me to play chess, showing me how each piece moves. Teaching me that white always moves first, and I learned secret strategies to get pieces out of dangerous positions. We pondered our way through several games daily. The night before he died, he said I was the best opponent he ever had the privilege of playing.
Turning from the wall of boxes, I began to walk towards the ladder, the back of my hand wiping away the new layer of painted tears. I had only taken a few steps when like a tidal wave, a loud crash came from behind and pushed up against me. The floorboards vibrated through my left foot that was planted on the ground, then vibrated into my leg. My right foot, however, was currently in the air, preparing for the treacherous journey of propelling my body forward and unfortunately missed out on the excitement. Being in this one-footed position, added to my awkward stance and poor stability. I nearly fell over when this 'jump scare' decided to give its reputation creedence. My chest was pounding so aggressively that for a second I thought, "there is no way this is the heart of a seven-year old, it's beating way too hard." Forcing myself to momentarily engage in a mental exercise, I visualized a masked surgeon sneaking into my room the previous night and giving me a heart transplant while I was sleeping. This person wrapped in an overly large white apron with shimmering scalpels for fingers replaced my adorable, petite heart with a giant, body-building mammoth heart. This was basically the only explanation for the aggressive palpitations my heart was experiencing, and why it made persistent attempts to burst through my chest.
Awakening from my very disturbing daydream, I stabilized myself. Grasped in fear, I quickly turned around to see what the loud crash was. I was pleased to see it wasn't the 'Rock Biter' from 'The Never Ending Story', which was obviously my first and only guess. Apparently the box I had recently set down had simply fallen from the other one that held it. Letting out a sigh of relief, I walked over to the box which now laid on its side. Its bowels displayed themselves, strung outside the flaps of the open box's perimeters.
Looking over at the box it had fallen from, I became slightly confused. "How did you fall off?" Maybe if I had set it on the edge of the other box, but I was quite sure I had it squarely on top of the other one. I became quickly distracted when I focused on the individual items lying helplessly on the floor. Picking up a small glass walrus that I had seen on my grandpa's dresser a million times, I slid the smooth texture between my fingers as my hand absorbed the cool temperature. I removed the chess board sticking up from the pile with my other hand. Standing up, I pushed one of the full boxes away from the others with my foot and unfolded the chess board on top of it. The walrus and I then began looking through the rest of the pile until we found a small, clear container. Opening the lid, I watched the chess pieces pour clumsily onto the board. I put each piece on its appropriate square just before my mom called from downstairs.
"CYNTHIA".
I glanced at the perfectly set chess game. "Love you Grandpa." I then walked to the ladder, turned off the light switch, and went downstairs.
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Your Move
МистикаDeeply intense, and painful emotions viciously tore into the constant thoughts of Cynthia's mind. She soon learned at seven years old what it was like to not only lose her grandfather, but her best friend. However; her sadness was soon forgotten as...
