“If
you can guess what I have in my pocket, you can have it?” The pocket was as empty
as the old man’s soul.
“This is a childish
game, papa. Can you just simply give me the items you so secretly hide in your trousers?”
The young lady folded her arms neatly behind her back.
“Now child, where would
you find your sense of adventure, your sense of prideful imagination if there wasn't a guess to be given?” Twiddling his fingers about, he struck no key or
compass.
“Is it a key to my new
flat? You've promised me something grand, shall that be the answer you are
searching for?” Sweet as her smile was, grandfather new all too well where it
had gotten her, and most days he underfed the idea of where it had gotten him.
“Surely, nonsense if
you suppose there is a building hiding in these old slacks.” They shared a
controversial laugh; the park had become vacant.
The morning was all
they took together. This man and his granddaughter, stole their morning bread
and ate it by the rivers bend. Sunlight streaming beneath the open branches of
the sycamore trees. Thievery was a sport. Entitled to quite more than any
necessary needs, they were shoplifting for the thrill. His age was solemnly
deteriorating. Her beautiful young age was blossoming like a lotus in spring,
awing.
Lessons and teachings
were performed and then vastly inadequate. The young woman’s intelligence came
not from the text in books, rather the predicament of precarious occasions. The
grandfather her supposed protector suspected his last breaths early on.
Huffing her breath in
the cool of the crisp air. She shuffled her boots about, making squeaks in all
the curves. There were rumors, she was a part of that he had been involved
with. Both ending their social status lives.
“A sweet or two. The
moon. The stars, the secrets to the universe, all of the above?” Reaching over
to caress his rosy cheek, a quiet chill had come over him.
“Papa?” His cheek
frigid with embarrassment.
“My darling, continue
with your speculations please.” The vibrations rang out upon the paved pathway.
He heard her began to hum a tune he knew all too well. It gravitated toward
him, aching in his bones.
“A marble? A jewel, a
ring of sorts? Is it my inheritance early on?” This girl used to be a child
once, he thought. He saw her skipping in his memories in her tights and dress’.
“Part of it, maybe.”
Visions became blurry. Hearts began to slow, one day they would all stop.
“The family business?
Your lake house?” Her guesses began to weigh on him as he looked around at all
he was leaving behind.
Were they the things he
had worked so hard for, for so long for? Were they inevitably worth his
family’s lives, especially that life of his only granddaughter? Questions hung
around his head like a noose being dangled in front of his exhausted eyes.
Whisking away the
static in her hair, she knelt down at his knee. Standing by his
side when all others chose to flee. Her palm open to his honesty. His heart
open to the mercy she provided.
Guilt swallowed the man
whole, and he gladly let it gobble his being. Crumbs of bellowing hope long
washed away. Characters of influential all bashing your truly good name. No
longer his name, he realized it was now hers and he had squandered it in vain.
Times were rough, no excuses had been made. The knowledge of the crimes
committed were cast away. Far from recollection, far from someone’s
paperwork, the secrets were deep in now some Joe’s swimming hole.
He fumbled with his
large fists exiting the pouches. Letting one hand fall open he began to speak.
“An apology.” The
wrinkles lining every accountability of his mournful life. “An apology is in my
pocket. I have been holding it in that cloth outlet for quite some time, for a
number of years. It is now my gift I wish to give you, my one ultimate gift. It
is for you. I have given you many things, a wealthy life and a bothersome
existence.” His voice began to grovel. His hands began to shake.
“So, I am sorry.” The
fists were laid open, unwilling to take back the present he had exposed.
S.M. Bjarnson
