No one found it curious that Grandfather left without his oil paints
The grandmother waits in the formal drawing room, impatient for the family’s arrival. She glances out the French doors at the freshly-turned flower bed. Turning her back to the garden, she plumps a cushion, then runs her gnarled fingers over silvery picture frames standing straight as toy soldiers. She adjusts their ranks chronologically: weddings, christenings, this one’s ballet recital, that one’s high school graduation. Her eyes rest on the photo pushed behind the others. She tears it, returns only half to the frame.
At precisely noon, the grandchildren rush to greet her as she sits regally in her favorite brocade chair. Her daughter hovers at the door as if she has something to say. The grandmother sends her away, no need to fuss, just another Sunday visit.
She hugs her grandchildren, inhaling their sweet innocent scent. Over the tops of their heads, she watches the dust motes settling on the black-lacquered curio cabinet he purchased for her on their honeymoon in Shanghai. Her mind sifts through the memories, cataloging sins and omissions.
The grandchildren huddle and giggle on the sofa, sinking into its slippery cushions. No one asks where the grandfather has gone. Wordlessly, she beckons them to follow her through the French doors to play in the garden, pausing first to collect her straw hat hanging from the gleaming butcher’s knife imbedded in his painting.
Barbara Ristine began her professional life as an attorney, but luckily, she escaped from the law years ago with no regrets. Her stories include historical, speculative, and contemporary fiction, and have appeared in The Westchester Review, Shotgun Honey, Literally Stories, Milk Candy Review, and many other fine journals. She lives in the shadows of the Sierras in northern Nevada.
