Amputee
by S.H. Gall
My grandson is a ghost to me. In this respect he is similar to my right leg, which was amputated last year. I feel my grandson and my leg as phantom entities from somewhere beyond, not so far beyond maybe, but definitely otherworldly.
I know he is a success in some respect or another; he was a very bright boy, always going places. He was a scholar, a musician, an athlete, and a keen, wise soul. I can see him as anything: doctor, lawyer, professor, philanthropist.
My granddaughter (married to a doctor herself) has nothing but good things to say about him. But she is never anything but vague. Almost makes me think my grandson might be a CIA operative, or a top-tier criminal. He could be anything at all. I love this about him. I don't want to know more.
I only need my grandmotherly certainty. This boy, now a man, is a vanguard. He is a champion. He is my daughter's son and his father's worst enemy. He is going places.
If, on his way, he pauses to stop in to see me in the home here, I will be polite but discreet. Not asking. Just feeling. The stump of a leg, the fantasy of estrangement.
209 words
25 December 2009
Seth Gall has had work published in China, Canada, and the U.S. His work has appeared in Word Riot, SmokeLong Quarterly, and Nanoism. He is S.H. Gall in decomP Magazine, Nanoism, issues one and 27 of SmokeLong Quarterly, Five Star Literary Stories, and Fictionaut.
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Author's Note
Nothing whatsoever to do with the holidays. Find this in Decomp Magazine.
Very interesting, the connection between someone supposedly close to us whom we never see and the loss of a limb. Very clever, and very well done.
A great voice here, rendered with an interesting shade of wistfulness.
Very perceptive as always, Susan. And Ajay, wistfulness is really the essence of what I'm trying to capture here. Thank you both!
The tragedy here, I think, is the narrator's polite acceptance of the absence of a limb and of someone deeply loved, now vanished. Hit me where it hurts. Well done.
you captured the voice perfectly, wistful yes, and also that sense of not wanting to be a bother, very much how the elderly in these situations accept their fate. Tenderly wrought.
Thank you for your insights Carol and Julie!