Never Waste

Micro Fiction.

Photo by Khamkéo on Unsplash

“Here you are.”

His grandson heaved the chair to the hilltop. Scratched earth trailed behind the wheels—black scabs on a green field. His chest rose and fell, shrinking against itself, though it begged for more air.

He does want me to worry. The old man thought. He turned with a smile. The grandson returned it.

The old man sat up. Weakness limited the pull the forward. His head struggled to hold steady. He watched the scene dance, grass bending, swept by a passing wind. Tree limbs waved like neighbors in greeting. He knew it was farewell.

A cluster of birds leaned hard into the breeze. A harsh gust lifted his coat, needling the skin beneath.

The grandson hurried around to the front, fingers numb as he worked the buttons of his grandfather’s coat. The motion tugged at something within the grandson, a memory. Child hands fumbling with string, a kite snagged in branches, still trying to fly long after its season had passed. How desperately he wanted that kite to stay.

He looked at his Grandfather and staggered. Grief hit like waves.

The old man glanced at the oxygen tank strapped to the side of the chair. Contempt took him. Slowly, he pulled the tube from his nose. The air hissed.

“Grandpa—”

The old man batted his hand away. “Enough!” He said. More of a plea than command.

The grandson froze.

The old man drew in a deep breath, tasting the air like wine. It caught in him. A fishhook of heaven.

He broke into a cough.

He cleared his throat. “Let the wind have me.”

He sank back into the chair, lungs already weary from the effort. He felt his breath slow.

The grandson’s eyes turned glassy, like marbles catching light. Still, he kept working the buttons, finishing what he had started.

Again, the old man brushed his hand away, this time slower.

“I like the cold.”

He closed his eyes. The grandson did the same. Both men blinked away tears.

Wind pressed at them again. The old man turned to his grandson.

“The wind bites the faces of the living. The closest thing we have to ghosts punches. The dead, so desperate for the living to never waste their love.”