Wild Hearts

A Million Links

Grandpa sighs, wipes his nose and chucks the weed over his head. I follow, jaw wide open as it traces a path through the air and lands with a plop in the wheelbarrow four metres behind us.

We share a smile and then he smacks his gloved hands together, dirt crumbling away.

"Right, I think that's enough for now. I'd say it's lunchtime, wouldn't you?"

I grin, nodding enthusiastically. Don't get me wrong, I love grandpa, but part of... Fine, half the reason I love coming over is that his pantry is always stuffed with food. Loaves of bread; cakes; biscuits; and enough vegetables to start his own market stall. If there's one thing grandpa liked, it was tending to his garden and his harvest.

I suppose that's what he and grandma liked most: giving life and sharing that joy with others.

Grandpa's cottage is a bit isolated from others, an almost non-existent dirt trail breaking off the main road, leading through a small forest until you reach the fairy-tale cottage within. Everything was old, yet screamed of an honest home. He even has a pet badger named Lucy!

Inside, I wash my hands and look into the mirror, using a scrounger to rub off the dirt patches on my face. A thick tangle of hair falls across my eye and I grunt, pushing it away. It falls back into place and I frown.

Reaching into the drawer below me, I fish out a pair of scissors and take hold of the stray lock, threatening it with one swift blow.

I stand before the mirror, panting heavily, scissors at the ready. One snip, and there it falls, drifting lazily into the sink, and now left behind is a spot where hair should have been. Like a drop in the ocean, alone it doesn't matter. But this is the sixth lock I've cut this month. My hair looks disastrous. I'm a walking disaster.

"Aiden," grandpa calls. "do you want ham or cheese?"

"What?"

"I said, ham or cheese?" A pause, then a sigh. "Oh, why not both?"

Silence.

Reaching my hands into my hoodie pockets, I feel the biscuits and the crinkle of packets. I could ask grandpa, but I'd feel ashamed. He already gives us enough. For now, I have to content myself as a lowly thief.

Walking into the kitchen, I'm greeted with the sight of pots and pans hanging from the ceiling like dangling spiders. Jars and little glass containers are hidden in shelves along with strange metal sculptures; gnome pepper pots and rusted little ornaments that look like they were gathered from the four corners of the earth. But dwarfing all that, suffocating it all like a disease are dozens of fruits and vegetables I've never seen before. A large red... thing hangs over the edge of one shelf ready to fall and make its escape.

It's always different. Like his house transforms with each passing day, becoming a new treasure trove of mysteries.

Hidden behind all these items are paintings and framed photographs. Most of them are too well hidden, but they tell his story. A story I have only cracked the surface of. Somehow I think grandpa is more than just a garden enthusiast and hoarder of trinkets.

Oh and keeper of exotic pets. Really though, Lucy was great. If a little lazy in her old age. I think he feeds her too much, but she's his only company these days.

Grandpa's left a small buffet of choices on the kitchen table, as he always does. I take a seat and start to assemble the biggest sandwich I've made yet. As long as the cheese and tomatoes don't touch. Lettuce in the middle. Always. If they touch... I don't want to think about that. Grandpa jokingly asks if I'm hungry, but I can't force any smile that doesn't betray the pain within.