Grandpa Wesley’s Trip
“Every
line,” Grandpa whispered, “is older than the dust in my bones.”
I stood
on tiptoes and looked out. I wanted to count them: the purple, crimson, orange
layers on fire in the sun. We squinted at the horizon, faces in the hot wind. I
held Grandpa’s hand.
“And
right down there…” A glint on his cheek; he was crying. One happy tear. “That’s
where my great Grandpa went. The
first. Oh, the stories Granny Mary would tell. Brave man, a good man.”
We
listened to the roar of the river below, shouting back at us from our own
history.
100 words excluding title.
Terrific memories. Beautiful.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the read, Bo. Glad you liked it.
DeleteLaura
Really brings out the feeling of connection. Lovely!
ReplyDeleteThanks! In writing it I ended up reading all about John Wesley Powell and his adventures, pretty awesome :-)
DeleteLaura
Nicely told story.
ReplyDeleteMany thanks for reading and stopping by. Glad you liked it.
ReplyDeleteLaura