"I'm an astronaut you know." She looks at me, a curl of grey hair slips forward and she tucks it back with a liver-spotted finger. "Did you hear me, Clare?"
I nod briskly, my pigtails bobbing madly. She looks to the sky, "I'm going to live on a star," she says, "a great big silvery star."
I squint at the sun, my eyes watering. "How will you get there?"
"I'll fly."
"In what?"
She clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "In nothing. I'll fly like superman."
"Oh."
We think about this.
"Grandma?"
"Yes, Clare?"
"You will wear pants won't you?"
"Overalls probably, dear."
I nod, satisfied.
The nurse arrives wheeling the food cart. She whirls into the room bleating pleasantries as she lays out the plastic tray sporting an assortment of plastic containers. She doesn't notice that neither of us responds and quickly vanishes into the next room reciting the same tired greetings that require no answers.
Grandma lifts the lid from the largest container and makes a face.
"Oatmeal again," she says. She motions toward her nightstand. "Fetch me the box in the top drawer will you. The black one."
The contents of the drawer smells like mice. There is a black matchbox beside the Kleenex; I hand it to her. She pushes it open and sunlight glitters across the contents; a box of silver fire. My mouth forms a tiny o.
"Stardust," she informs me sprinkling the silvery specks over her oatmeal. She spoons a glittering glob into her mouth. "I'm going to live on a star," she repeats.
I never saw her again. She died later that night. When they told me she was gone I thought she'd flown to the stars. My grandmother, dashing through the universe fuelled by stardust.
Words: 297
Image courtesy of: Smoko-Stock
Grandma lifts the lid from the largest container and makes a face.
"Oatmeal again," she says. She motions toward her nightstand. "Fetch me the box in the top drawer will you. The black one."
The contents of the drawer smells like mice. There is a black matchbox beside the Kleenex; I hand it to her. She pushes it open and sunlight glitters across the contents; a box of silver fire. My mouth forms a tiny o.
"Stardust," she informs me sprinkling the silvery specks over her oatmeal. She spoons a glittering glob into her mouth. "I'm going to live on a star," she repeats.
I never saw her again. She died later that night. When they told me she was gone I thought she'd flown to the stars. My grandmother, dashing through the universe fuelled by stardust.
Words: 297
Image courtesy of: Smoko-Stock
0 comments:
Post a Comment