The falling sun outside set the tone of the room. The larger-than-life-presence of Gertrude Harris now hunched before me in a tattered easy chair. My whole life, I'd struggled to live up to her name. When I was young, I'd hated it; Gertrude was a dorky name. But the stories of my grandma, my namesake, washed away any embarrassment. She lived a life I envied. Mom would say the only thing Grandma G feared was sitting still. She needed adventure. When other families took road trips to Florida or Yosemite, Grandma G took her kids dog sledding in frozen Alaska or riding camels past the pyramids.
But now Grandma G was lost. Her mind was stripped of her, and she spent most of her days staring vacantly at a flickering TV. Still, her walls were filled with the pictures of her life: her tall, slender frame leaning against a single-engine plane she was about to pilot solo, her broad smile looking down a river at oncoming rapids, her arms spread as she floated down to earth with a parachute unfolded behind her. Of all the photos on the wall, it was a Farris wheel that always stuck out. It was tame compared to the rest; I always kicked myself for not asking why this photo made it to the crowning center spot on her wall.
"I met my Frank in line for that ride," her voice creaked from lack of use.
My eyes pulled to her, to her lucid thought.
"It was a small town fair in upstate New York. I was passing through on my way to Niagra. My mother and I had just had a row over my travels. She thought they were so uncouth for a woman in her early twenties. She wanted me to marry, settle in with children. But I couldn't do that; too much to see." A smile spread across her face as she recalled Granpa Frank. "He was so handsome. I've never felt more alive than teetering atop that Farris wheel with Frank's eyes on me. "Love is the best adventure."
I opened my mouth to ask for more, for the whole story, but she just slumped deeper into her chair as the vacancy of her mind took hold again.
YOU ARE READING
Pebbles: A Collection of Short Stories
Short StoryGot a minute? Want to have your mind flip between genres so fast you are left unsettled and confused? Excellent! Here's a book of shorts in no particular order; sorry, Melvil Dewey. Maturity Level: fade to black violence in The Seven Sisters & Heart...
