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Three Words Entry 6: package, carefree, twinkle
He sits in the center of the room, hands telling the size of the story. Leans forward to strengthen his voice and make sure it reaches my ears.
Will we all be together next year? Just like this.
When he is gone what holds us together except blood which flows much too thin here?
The whistle from the kettle interrupts the war stories. I run, struck by my trivial concerns. He divided 15 peas for supper with his sister and brother. Five for each. I pick the peas out of my mixed vegetables and scrape them into the garbage can which holds a shameful amount of wasted food.
We have heard these stories enough to remember them but I drink them in anxious to feel the experience.
What stories have been silenced? What have we lost, not willing to listen? This is a story meant to be told. Who can tell it?
That first chocolate when he was 13 came from the sky in a package and he split it again with his sister and brother. Closed their eyes and enjoyed the taste of freedom, liberty, luxury, peace.
He straightens out, looking at nothing, lost in another time. His face is thin and he looks more like an old man than I have ever seen him to be. Yet somehow I see the little boy he once was, running through the streets laughing. Then, fatherless.
And now, generations down, he stares at his own great-grandchildren. The oldest is 7. Hungry is just a word. Being scared is when someone you love jumps out and says ‘Boo!’ Bombs are not a part of her vocabulary. Innocent, carefree in the strongest sense.
I am young but not so young as to not notice his head shake when the five-year old refuses to eat the dinner. Not so young as to not know that he wishes he could explain what we ought to be grateful for. Not so young as to see his happy eyes when he sees we are happy too.
He is weak and old and what if this is the last?
What will we ever do without him to make us laugh? To say wise things that he does not see as wise? What now when these stories will not be told again? Do I know them all? Will I remember all?
I hug him just a little longer than normal and kiss his wrinkled cheek. He looks me in the eye and the twinkle is there.
Someday when you write your book you can use these stories and say they are from this old man.
Proudly, he touches my shoulder and I know I will do all I can to do exactly that.
That was great