The fire in the hearth was roaring, flames crackling and sending smoke up the chimney, blued and sweet into winter air. The grandchildren had gathered, a collection of elbows and knees, snaggle-toothed smiles, runny noses. Such wild children. What a collection of lovable riff-raff. They are gathered to hear a story, pulled from childish games of rock climbing and fortress building to listen.
He was rocking in an oak chair. He thinks perhaps, he made this chair with one of them. William was it? Shock of blond hair. He couldn’t entirely recall. Children changed as they grew anyway. He tapped his pipe on the arm of the chair. Ashes fell to the floor, then more ashes. How was his pipe so full of ashes? The children had bright little eyes as woodland creatures in Disney movies and furtive, animal-like movements, jabbing one another in the ribs, moving impatiently. Children these days were always bored though, weren’t they?
Do you want this grandfather? One of the grandchildren asked, holding up a pair of reading glasses. Oh, yes. He loved to read. Had they heard the story about Ping, the duck who doesn’t want to get paddled on his behind? But oh does that lead to trouble. Had he read it to them before? He’d read it to his children, years ago now, tucking them into crisp white sheets, their warm animal bodies, soft pillows of cheeks. Where had he left those years? He searched his mind, his pockets, came up empty.
The children looked at him expectantly like a great set of fluffy clouds gathered on the horizon line impatiently waiting for the burnish of sunset. The grandfather examined his weathered hands. Where was his wife? She’d been at the store forever and a day now. He missed her. These children needed to eat, didn’t they?
He had stories, so many stories about the war. Once, he’d seen a man’s soul leave his body, a slightly hazy shimmering, as light over water. Such a story as children might enjoy. The details were hazy though, shimmering themselves.
He had nothing left to give these strange children, which made him so sad, all his grandchildren gathered here at story hour for no reason. They had moved closer, arms and legs crossed, rocking. Who were they? What stories might they like to hear?
First, they took a slender bit of his fingernail, tentatively though, then the tip of his nose, a game he used to play with his children, I got your nose. Except they had his nose. Goodbye. The children looked happy as they slid off his big toe, then the large muscle of his calf.
At first, the grandfather thought about shooing them away, firing a rifle to scatter the crows from the carcass of his dog as in childhood. Or had he read that somewhere?
He thought maybe he’d tell them this story, the one about the dog, but they had already taken out his tongue, these sweet grandchildren of his, with their happy little eyes, guiding him home.