Writer Wednesday 12.4

A recent prompt we had in writing club, a second draft of a last minute story. Based on the idea of creating a story around a singular moment in time (i.e. a bullet to the brain, a wink, etc...)

The old man looked down and into his lap. Stains were growing and fading on his pressed grey trousers. The seam lay stiff running down his leg, pleated to perfection, his mom had always said.

His hands were worn, battered and torn from years of work, laying in his lap. Long ago he had split his hand on an old car engine, letting the blood drip down until he got the part exactly where he needed it to be. And he hadn’t cried then. Scarred now, that hand filled with the moisture of his pain. As he sat there, the tears just couldn’t stop. A part of him didn’t want them to either. This blink in time, his granddaughter’s hand held his and tightened as a single tear fell off his chin and through the air. It glistened in the sunlight that bounced from the windows of that church. That tear fell tumultuously towards that crease.

It slipped down his face so quickly, he thought no one would know any better. His tired, wrinkled eyes were lowered and away from everyone else’s. One sole blink caused those gates to open. The room was still, no one was moving, no one spoke except his eldest son.

Mike was reminiscing about the times they had had as children in the backseat of that old Chevy. How they drove miles and miles to find the perfect camping spots, the three of them and Dad. Mom always stayed home. She didn’t like the camping stuff. Let’s face it, neither did Cinda. She was the middle child and only girl of the bunch. Many times she had fought with the boys, always winning on wit. She and Bill would spend summers in the car driving up and down the coast visiting family.

He squeezed back to his granddaughter. He had a special place in his heart for she and for Cinda, his only daughter. Her blond locks had shimmered in the sun that first summer in the new house. The one he had built for his family. Her picture still hangs above the fireplace, shining in the light radiating through the front room windows. Holding a smaller version in his hands, he tried not to crumple it as the noises in the church rose and fell as Mike finished his speech.

As the aisles filled and emptied, the old man stayed, his granddaughter’s hand still clasping his. They sat and waited until they were all alone. He didn’t look up, seeing a similar stain on his granddaughter’s dress. They were too similar.

Staying there, the tear tumbled again, floating swiftly through the sunlight. Falling down through the gleams of the windows. Creating a rainbow with angles and curves, it landed in a small rounded blemish on his creased grey pants.  Over time it faded, but it’s still there. Always on his mind, like a scar leaving a memory.