A shapeless heap kneels before me. It is darkness, a jumble of words and phrases and colors and emotions and thoughts and there it sits.
Most would struggle with this mass, they would fight against it. Mold it to their views and toss it out when it just didn’t work for them. It would become a mass for someone else to mold and toss.
But I have chosen to decipher it. I don’t want to make it my own, I want to understand it. Look deeper into this jumbled mess and see more than what meets the eye. I’ll sit down with the shapeless heap and let it know that I do not wish to tell it my story but rather let it tell me its own.
The heap will speak to me and tell me how it came to be. From just a simple mist, one simple idea. And it grew and grew. That shapeless heap will tell me it’s just a shapeless heap but I’ll know better. That bundled ball of chaos isn’t all it seems to be. That shapeless heap is me.
This is a story inspired by my grandfather who later in his years called me “The Kid.” I’ve been slowly working at this one, fixing it here and there for almost two years now.The past week has been busy so I’ve decided to put up a pre-written story instead of making my followers wait longer for a fresh one.
The old man put on his shirt. It was a light blue button down dress shirt. He didn’t remember where he got the shirt. Did he buy it? Was it a Christmas present from one of the grandkids? Why was he putting this one on today? It had been laid out for him by what he assumed was a maid. Or was it the nice lady next door? He stared at the mirror for a minute, not sure exactly why it mattered. His fingers were large and putting the tiny buttons into the holes posed a challenge. Not one to ever give up, he buttoned every last button. He tucked the shirt into his gray pants and searched the room for his suit jacket. He looked into the mirror again and saw his wrinkly face. Then he took his comb from his coat pocket and began to mess with his hair. There was not much he could do to change his hair. After years and years of styling his bangs to swoop over to the left side, they just fell into place. He remembered the “kid” got a big kick out of it whenever she came to visit. He enjoyed seeing her and the other grandchildren; he always had their best interest at heart. His facial hair had been trimmed the day before by a lady he did not recognize. Or was she someone he had known before? He sized himself up, knowing this was the best he was going to look today.
He was sitting in the chapel now. Listening to the words of the minister and the beautiful songs played over the speakers. He remembered hearing these songs when he was younger being performed by wonderful choir groups accompanied by real life pianos. Times have changed for this old man. He looked over at his wife. She too had aged, sometimes looking worse because of her sickness. But today it was different. Today the old man’s wife was as beautiful as the day he had met her. Comforted by friends and family he turned back to the minister and listened to his speech.
Now he is in an unfamiliar place. There is a buffet of sandwiches and potato salad and baked beans and a wide assortment of deserts. All around were friends and family, catching up on new events and retelling of old stories. Sitting next to his daughter, he dug into his cake. He loved eating sweets and remembered his days of owning a candy shop. His wife and daughter running the cash register, his little grandson playing on the shelves in only a diaper. These were the days he missed. He took a sip of coffee and smiled at the jokes being told. Although he did not fully understand what was being said he still played along. The old man looked up towards the door, as if he had forgotten something. Once he was done with his plate he grabbed his cane and walked over to the door. Absent mindedly he stood there as if he were waiting. Lost in thought he stands there, then as if out of nowhere the old man notices his granddaughter standing next to him. He looks at her confused as he always does with a smile on his face. He loves to joke around.
“Hey grandpa, what are you up to?” She asks.
“I’m waiting for my son.” He says proudly.
“He is sitting right over there.” The granddaughter points over to her uncle.
“No, I am waiting for Earnie.” The old man’s eyes looked off into the distance. He had forgotten that he laid his oldest son to rest more than a year ago. His dementia was growing worse by the day. He turned to his granddaughter as if she were someone new and said, “My wife died, today I was at her funeral.”