It was August and very hot. The boy sat, facing the wrong way, on an old rusted out tricycle that he was now five years too old to ride comfortably. He sipped a soda and watched from a distance as his grandfather did the work that needed to be done in the orchard.
The old man would say, at random throughout the long summer days, that "there's work that needs to be done in the orchard." The boy's father said it was code for "I need to get the fuck away from Grandma." The boy finished his soda.
Time passed and the boy's attention moved from the old man to a grasshopper with one less leg than it should have. He didn't notice his grandfather approach him on his way to the house until the old man had already passed. The boy imprisoned the lame grasshopper in the empty soda can and followed quietly behind.
The man and his tiny shadow entered the garage. The boy stood over a paint splattered portion of the floor. He liked the random patterns the chaos of color made on the cold, grey, concrete. Sometimes, he thought he could see pictures of things in the mess if he looked hard enough. His grandfather stood, hands on his hips, staring at a wall of tools that hung from metal pegs. He frowned.
Grandmother came out to remind the old man that she had a list of things that she had broken that he should fix. His eyes became hollow and he nodded. The magic nod worked and grandmother went back into the house.
The boy stared at the dried paint on the floor and saw horses become flowers, then watched the flowers turn to demons, and the demons became nuns. As the child pondered the meaning of life, his grandfather sighed and dropped his hands from his hips as he walked to the refrigerator. The old man gave the boy another soda, then opened a beer for himself. He shook his head and sighed as he walked back to the orchard.
The boy was carving new pictures in the dried up paint with a screwdriver when his grandfather returned just one minute later. The old man's face was twisted with frustration and he made long strides over the floor as he chanted the one word mantra under his breath,"Hatchet... hatchet... hatchet... hatchet..." He grabbed the hatched from its peg on the wall of tools and walked over to the boy. "There's work that needs to be done in the orchard," he said as he walked out of the garage.
--A photo-shopped snap-shot of my young life growing up in Ashley, Ohio. It's mostly fictitious... except for the hatchet.
The old man would say, at random throughout the long summer days, that "there's work that needs to be done in the orchard." The boy's father said it was code for "I need to get the fuck away from Grandma." The boy finished his soda.
Time passed and the boy's attention moved from the old man to a grasshopper with one less leg than it should have. He didn't notice his grandfather approach him on his way to the house until the old man had already passed. The boy imprisoned the lame grasshopper in the empty soda can and followed quietly behind.
The man and his tiny shadow entered the garage. The boy stood over a paint splattered portion of the floor. He liked the random patterns the chaos of color made on the cold, grey, concrete. Sometimes, he thought he could see pictures of things in the mess if he looked hard enough. His grandfather stood, hands on his hips, staring at a wall of tools that hung from metal pegs. He frowned.
Grandmother came out to remind the old man that she had a list of things that she had broken that he should fix. His eyes became hollow and he nodded. The magic nod worked and grandmother went back into the house.
The boy stared at the dried paint on the floor and saw horses become flowers, then watched the flowers turn to demons, and the demons became nuns. As the child pondered the meaning of life, his grandfather sighed and dropped his hands from his hips as he walked to the refrigerator. The old man gave the boy another soda, then opened a beer for himself. He shook his head and sighed as he walked back to the orchard.
The boy was carving new pictures in the dried up paint with a screwdriver when his grandfather returned just one minute later. The old man's face was twisted with frustration and he made long strides over the floor as he chanted the one word mantra under his breath,"Hatchet... hatchet... hatchet... hatchet..." He grabbed the hatched from its peg on the wall of tools and walked over to the boy. "There's work that needs to be done in the orchard," he said as he walked out of the garage.
--A photo-shopped snap-shot of my young life growing up in Ashley, Ohio. It's mostly fictitious... except for the hatchet.
VIEW 8 of 8 COMMENTS
dmac:
Seriously! What the hell is up with my poor brain!
sjofn_:
lol you know what it really does it matter at all Sorry...... I've learned not to let anyone in again and I'm not taking chances on people lol you know I just want to be care free again and not care it's easier