When I first met this man was the day my father was rushed into the hospital, later pronounced dead. I assumed he must have been his one of Pop's friends. He had a lot of friends, he was a good man.
In the midst of tears, swollen eyes and condolences from people that came and went by like a flow of water, he stayed with me for a long time. We talked as much as my four-year-old self could allow me to. He offered me a little toffee, the one that Pop would always give me. As I popped the tiny candy in, I thought maybe he was just Pop 2.0. Or maybe he was Pop himself, who was pulling a little prank on me.
But I never saw him again.
Until now. Almost twenty years later, when my lungs could no longer do what they were supposed to, and when blood was sliding out my temples, and when my ribs who were supposed to protect stabbed me, he came again.
"You're back."
"This time, for you. I'm afraid."
"My son... You know what to do," I whisper.
Later that day, the Grim Reaper slid a toffee to the little brown-haired boy who sat in the midst of tears, swollen eyes and condolences from people who came and went like a flow of water.
YOU ARE READING
Wee Tales
Short StoryI'm bad at writing short stories. I'm terrible at committing to novels or novellas. But I try my hand at the former.
