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.
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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Nothing whatsoever to do with the holidays. Find this in Decomp Magazine.