Wild Hearts

Broken Tide

The rain settles into a mist-like drizzle, and I press my palms against the kitchen bench, watching grandpa stop in the middle of the garden dropping the box. It's like a scene from a silent movie, and my heart skips a beat.. Wiping his forehead, he leans against the shed and remains still.

I can't be sure, but it looks like... He's crying.

His body quakes, head bowed low, shaking as if he is overcome with a great wave of emotion. He presses his face into his arm and I can't stand it anymore. Pushing myself away, I turn and zip up my coat, throwing the hood on.

I sprint through the rain and pause a few feet from him, unsure of what to say. I notice the box is drenched, the item frames within soaked with blotches of rain. Leaning forward, I begin to close the lid when his rough hand grips my wrist suddenly. I gasp, and meet his eyes—a desperateness that rings, a pain that aches.

I try and struggle free, and then he blinks, loosening his joints. Releasing my hand, he glances at his own as if he wasn't even aware of what he's doing. Maybe he wasn't. At least, not fully.

"Come on," I pant, heaving the box up. He follows me into the large shed—the chaotic jungle that is our eternal quest. Inside, I lick the rainwater from my lips and then place the box down gently, throwing my hood back. Clearing out my eyes, I turn, meeting grandpa's hollow gaze.

"You were just letting it get wet," I say, bottom lip quivering.

"Yes," he sighs, his voice cracking, splintering into nothingness. "I was, wasn't I?"

"What's wrong, Grandpa?"

He shakes his head, throwing a dismissive hand in the air. He half turns and lets out a low whistle. "It's nothing that needs concern you, lad," he comments gruffly. This isn't like the grandpa I love. The one who treats a wrench to the toe like a scene from a slapstick comedy, pushing aside the pain to make me laugh as he hops about, even dancing through what turned out to be a shattered bone. The one who greets a storm with a smile, commenting simply that a rainbow is sure to follow. The one who takes one look at his hungry grandson and sneaks a bag of biscuits, vegetables and berries into his backpack, rather than let his frustration out, as I know he must want to.

"Ok," I mutter, turning back to the box. Lifting the lid, I pick up the frame at the top, wiping off the thick layer of water. It's a picture of grandma and grandpa at some fete, and they're much younger. Dad's in the picture too, though he's running out of frame, chasing his friend. Dad looks so much like me, yet not at the same time. His eyes are more slanted, and his smile is like nothing I've ever seen. So much youthful passion; a stark contrast to the man I know today.

That's not to say dad never smiles, but he doesn't make a habit out of it either. He's always so dour, but maybe this group session will bring some things to light. If we ever get around to it. Curse David's persuasive words. I don't know why I told him about the blackouts.

"Everyone looks so happy here," I comment, holding the frame towards him. I know this is what set him off, and I also know now what he was doing. This box was from his room. He was trying to hide it in among the chaos pressed into these small rusted walls. Hide it at the back, hopefully, a problem for a day he wouldn't have to see.

Grandpa doesn't look like he will take it—his eyes examine the photo with intense hatred, fear even, like I'm holding out a snake. Finally, after a long pause which feels as if it will stretch on forever, he grabs the photo from me and studies it, stroking his finger along the surface of the glass.

"Yes," he murmurs, a smile pulling through the darkness. "Yes, we were. That fete was the last one they held before the... Well, yes those things don't bear mentioning."