Humming

I give to you a true story in eleventy-one words...

My grandfather and I watched television in the den. ‘No Whammies!’ the contestants repeatedly screamed until he pressed mute. He continued to entertain with a soundtrack of coughs, burps, snorts, farts, and squeaks interspersed betwixt the murmuring of a tune existing only in his head. His cacophonous interlude soon gave way to a nap.

I moved to the living room couch.

It was then that I heard my grandmother in the kitchen. Sifting through coupons. Clicking her rosary beads. Washing a dish. Cleaning the countertop. Throughout these daily tasks, she hummed Lara’s Theme with her sweet, soft, and soothing voice.

I closed my eyes, smiled, and lingered in that perfect moment.

Oven On Low

I give to you the story of my grandmother's birth in eleventy-one words...

It was February 12, 1923. A burly man greeted the doctor; concern shone in his eyes. ‘Come! Come!’ the man urged. They found the man’s pregnant wife in bed. The husband looked at the doctor. ‘Too early,’ he whimpered.

‘Three months too early,’ the doctor replied gravely.

The doctor soon delivered a premature baby girl. He snipped the umbilical cord, wrapped her up, and headed for the kitchen. Once there, he turned the oven on low, opened the door, and put the baby in a baking pan.

‘You will need to keep her on low with the oven door open,’ he explained. ‘I will be back to check on her daily.’

Lights Out

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

I gaze out the window. There’s an emptiness in the frigidity, a silence in the snow white sheet superimposed on the ebony desolation. Suddenly, I watch as the lights flicker and die. The scene is pitch. Only my lone clove candle battles the stygian void.

There immediately comes at my door a knock. Thinking it might be a needy neighbor, I grab the candle, unbolt the lock, open the door, and peek into the hallway just in time to see the far hallway door close. I look down and see the faint outline of a card. I retrieve it and read, ‘Come down within five minutes; your life depends on it.’  

Sleepover

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

He stepped into the darkness, clicked his phone’s power button, and watched it die. He shook his head to dislodge the fog from his brain. ‘Think’ he urged himself. But only a fractured stream of pregnant pauses filled his mind.

‘You okay?’

He turned to see the barkeep. ‘No, not really.’

‘C’mon in.’

He followed.

'I have a cot in the basement.’

‘Thank you.’

The bartender opened the creaking door. ‘Sleep well, son.’

With that, he inched onto the first step and spied into the darkness. The door suddenly closed behind him; the light went out. Before he could turn, the step disappeared. He fell onto a pile of bones.

Locker

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

He beams as he enters the deserted locker room with bolt cutters in tow, for hidden treasures lurk behind the many flimsy metal doors. The blades slice through the first lock. He finds inside a pair of Adidas that smell like a dead rat wrapped in Munster. He reaches to touch one of the sneakers. The shoe’s history flickers through his mind. On tennis courts, pavement, hardwood floors. Scuff marks and stains disappear. A familiar burning courses through his veins. His hand shakes as the shoe reverts to its former state. He releases the now brand new shoe and drops to the bench, exhausted. It promises to be a long night.

Rocker

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

He settles into the antiquated rocker, leans his head against the multi-hued afghan. Flooding memories actualize in a single tear that slides down his pale cheek. The epic games of cribbage at the dining room table. The cries of anger from the den after an interception. The whistling of Lara’s Theme from the kitchen. He rubs his clammy palms along the smooth finished maple. The chair and he glide along the squeaking joints of the hardwood. For a moment, he pinpoints those elusive feelings. Of warmth and safety, joy and peace. They are fleeting, mere wisps of what was. All that now remains is the rhythmic undulation of the pendulous rocker.

Goodbye

I give to you a true story in eleventy-one words...

I sift through the last container determining if I want any of the detritus therein. The garage door opens with its familiar hemming and hawing. My mother enters, reminds me that the train is at six. I survey the unfinished basement with its myriad accumulated memories. Something nags me then, a sense of finality wrapped in haste. I ascend the stairs and find my grandparents reclining in the den. I shake my grandfather’s hand, kiss my grandmother’s cheek, and dart back down the stairs. As we depart, I glance at the dogwood, the row of unkempt hedges, this house I’ve known since birth. And I realize it’s time to say goodbye.