Grandpa schleps out of the room with his shoebox, muttering something about fresh air. And in a blink, he’s gone. Taking that box with him, and whatever past he wants to sit with alone.
Grandpa. Don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me alone with dark eyes that seem to behold me and swallow me and still see me as Ika.
Even the music doesn’t give me a reprieve. It just tightens the air between us.
The Exponents. ‘Why Does Love Do This to Me’.
“What?” I snap breathlessly. “What do you want?”
“Don’t be frightened,” he says. He lunges, hand cupping the side of my head, and my insides soar up into the base of my throat?—
In a ticklish sweep, he removes his hand, and in it?—
I gulp.
In the cage of his hand is a spider.
I scream, a shrill sound that accompanies a very thorough body shake and me slapping at my hair in case any more creepers are lurking.
Trent’s eyes flicker with amusement but before I can appreciate the rare twinkle, he’s moved to the window and freed the eight-legged beast.
With his back to me, Trent says, “Should’ve seen the one I found in bed this morning.”
“Trent!”
His bed isourbed. And... why do I have the feeling that Trent might be secretly laughing?
I sneak up to him, but if he’s been smirking he’s schooled it by the time I yank him around. He raises a brow.
I’ll catch you, one of these days.
“Let’s put these donation bags by the front door. Then it’s to Moana after lunch.”
He nods, a twinkle still in his eyes.
I might be here for Grandpa’s smiles, but sometimes I have a feeling I’m here for his, too.
kelp & compost
Mess that turns into something living, if we let it.
We load the truck with the spoils of Grandpa’s room: a wobbling stack of donation bags, one heroic lampshade, a typewriter that groans like it remembers everything. Grandpa has been acting strange since he ran off with his shoebox earlier, and he doesn’t even insist on supervising. He stays in the garden, fiddling with the gate to the chicken pen.
“Should I biff that shoebox?” I ask, stuffing a last black bag with rubbish that we’ll drop past the tip.
“Leave it. Not ready to let that one go yet.”
I nod. “Need anything while we’re out?”
“Pick up my meds.”
Trent drives. The Parade is a series of speedbumps with the promise of the coast at the end of it.
“We drop this to Moana, then head to the tip?” Trent says.
“Then pick up meds for Grandpa. And maybe a pick-him-up. Think he’s exhausted, parting with so many belongings. What would he like?”
Trent hums. And as we drive towards Shorland Park his breath catches. “That.”
