The Chronicles of Grandad

Grandad sat in the chair, still and serene as a calm lake. His face was placid.

"Grandad!" I screeched in my weasel-like voice, mouthing off as stupidly and loudly as I so often do. "Would you like to visit Cousin Jeremiah?! Blink once for yes, twice for no!"

Unfortunately, Grandad had very dry eyes, so he blinked too often for me to tell what his answer was.

Grandad wasn't always immobile. He was only forty; I was fifty. He and Grandmama had adopted my mother when they were twelve and my mother was forty-nine. Mother had forgotten to take herself out of the adoption waiting list she'd been on as a child. But that's another story for another time.

I frowned, making my already disgusting wrinkled mug turn, if possible, more vomit-inducing than a glassful of syrup of ipecac.

Grandad threw up. Grandad upchucked so frequently, it had crippled him. The uglier I got, the sicklier and weaker Grandad became. He'd stopped talking long ago, and the brilliant movies he'd once made, the fantastic poems he'd written, the amazing paintings he'd created, were all gone from his now rotted brain. Since we stored those fabulous artifacts in the damp basement, the original copies, too, had deteriorated.

I decided to go to Jeremiah's with Grandad. We would role-play as fruits, which was easy, since Grandad was all rotten and I was as stinky as a breadfruit.

One day, our little game got out of hand, and Jeremiah devoured Grandad's decrepit body.

It was an accident, he said, his slit-like eyes glistening.  And I believed him.

We loved Grandad.

I mean, I was killing Grandad by being with him.

But now that I'm in tied up in a stew pot with Jeremiah chopping onions beside me, I'm not sure I believe him.