Breaking Down - a short story

Breaking Down

I wish it were still last summer. Gramps was here, and we had such a good time: fishing, camping out, and roasting marshmallows. He even showed me how to paint. “It’s in our blood,” he told me one sun filled afternoon. And he was the one to know. He had created works of art his entire life. He filled his house with portraits of our family and landscapes of the hills surrounding his farmhouse. There were pictures of his vegetable garden and flowerbeds. There were likenesses of his hound dog and sketches of his crazy rooster, Max. I thought it was funny how he would rotate his paintings to match the season and store the other ones down in the basement.

My mom pulls me out of my happy memory, “Aw kids, just look at all of the colorful leaves. You don’t get to see fall like this down in Florida… . Keira, Keats, are you two even listening?” The truth is that I am listening, but I’m not in the mood to admit it. The last thing I want to do is have to drive all the way to the mountains, just to be reminded of how much I miss Gramps. I mean, cut a girl some slack … this is too much to deal with.

My little brother, Keats, finally answers for both of us, and I am relieved. “Do you think when we get to Grams’ house we can pile up some leaves and jump in them?”

“Of course you can. In fact, we’ll make this trip as much fun as possible. Okay?” Mom says enthusiastically, but I can tell she is in as much pain as I am. After all, Gramps was her father.

The long ride winds and weaves along the double lane back-roads of North Carolina. Until finally, there it is, my most favorite place in this world … the home of my grandparents. Only now, it looks a little different – I can’t explain exactly how.

“We’re here!” Mom says, steering the car up the dirt driveway.

Grams swings open her front door. Her arms stretch wide and a smile lights up her face. Strange, she seems to be moving slower than before. Just last summer, she actually hiked along a mountain trail with me. But now, she can barely walk down the three short steps from her front porch.

We haven’t made it out of the car, when I ask my mom, “Does Grams look okay to you?”

Mom peers over at her mother and back towards me. “You must remember this has been difficult for her, but I’m sure she's fine. Besides, it’s our mission to cheer her up.”

“I wish Dad could have come,” I say, resenting the fact he had to work.

“I do too, but we’ll get through this,” Mom says, looking back toward Grams. “All right, happy faces everyone!”

The truth is that I love my Grams. She isn’t the sort to bake cookies and knit sweaters -- far from it. But that's fine; what I love about her is her unwillingness to be the typical grandma. Most of my friends’ grandmas swing on their front porches, but mine swings on a tire from the highest tree branch. And look out muggers; she’s a black belt in Karate. She may be a bit on the eccentric side, but I like it.

My Grams smells like exotic perfume, but in a good way. And when I hug her, memories from my past flood my mind. When she releases me, I have to remember my ‘happy face.’

“It’s so good of you to come,” Grams exclaims. “I hear that my little granddaughter will celebrate a birthday soon … fourteen. Honestly, where did the time go? In fact, I remember changing your diapers as if it were yesterday.”

“Oh, Grams,” I say, and I know my cheeks are turning a nice shade of pink.

“Please excuse the appearance of the house. It is a complete wreck,” Grams says, looping her arm through Mom’s and heading toward the white farmhouse.