Previous Challenge Entry (Level 2 – Intermediate)
Topic: COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS (Don't write about the song) (04/16/15)
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TITLE: A Gnarled Life | Previous Challenge Entry
By Catherine Craig
04/22/15 -
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Fingering the corner of the picture lying on the small square table beside him, he ran an index finger over its glossy surface. Getting married? No. It couldn't be.
Hadn't she just visited? A tiny thing all covered with hair? Hadn't she been fourteen - or was it fifteen?
Releasing the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, he inhaled deeply, and then exhaled; to his ears, it sounded like a long sad sigh. He hurt. He ached from the inside out.
Flexing the fingers of one hand and massaging its swollen joints with the other, he grimaced and started to rise, but fell backwards, unable to. His knees were locked, unwilling to cooperate.
A stab of fear sliced through the pain. What if…? He shook his head, willing the thoughts away - the hurt - the fear - the loneliness.
Thinking he'd heard a sound, he held his breath, glancing at the phone - silent as always, and then toward the front door, waiting. Nothing. Not so much as a footstep.
Closing his eyes wearily and leaning back, he felt the top of the aluminum chair press hard against his bare scalp. There'd been a time… he thought, feeling the corners of his mouth tip up in a mirthless smile. There'd been a time when I wouldn't have felt its cold metal.
Such a thoughtful child, he mused, confused. Wanting to hope - but afraid to. Why would she bother with me? Sending pictures of her trying on her wedding dress? Of all things…
As if on cue, a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds to stream in the window warm against his closed eyelids. He could almost hear her giggle at something he'd said, but the memory faded, obscured by his guilt, remembering his sharp tone, the way her eyes had widened with fear in her small face.
A tear escaped, and his breath caught in a sob. Angrily, he ran his shirtsleeve across his face, erasing any signs of weakness, and swallowing, fighting for control. Had he always been this way - sad, negative, feeling sorry for himself? Angry?
He looked over at the phone - waiting - then at the clock. Would she call? She'd promised. Five minutes.
Slowly, he straightened his arm and picked up the picture, almost reverently. Holding the large print close up to him, he squinted at it. Pretty, he thought, chuckling. Gotta be my side of the family.
Something akin to a fire engine startled him, and caused the picture to slide from his fingers, and him, to sit straight up. Ignoring for once the pain radiating from his hips up his back to his shoulders, he stared at the phone jangling in its cradle.
"It's early." His lips formed the words but no sound came out. "I can't," he added in a whisper as he reached toward the sound, but jerked his hand back. "I can't."
"Oh, yes you can," argued a voice, stronger, like his, but at the same time, not his. It was firmer. "You will answer that. It's your grand daughter… She's calling and you will not feel sorry for yourself, old man. You will pick up that phone, and you will count your blessings that she is calling…"
From somewhere came the strength to overcome. He stretched out his hand - spanning years of letdown, dashed hopes, betrayal - reaching out to whatever was on the other side of that call.
Picking up the receiver, he held it to his ear, afraid to breathe.
"Grandpa!" exclaimed a feminine voice, one he remembered from so long ago. "I'm so glad you answered…"
He made a sound acknowledging that was there, and then covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he let the tears fall.
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