Stories on Tap
They killed my grandpa on a Thursday.
I forget the month, although I know it was Spring because the sun shone brightly on our lawn outside the front window. The dew was heavy and sparkled like shattered glass.
Today, Cassie McConnell faced a scene every parent dreads. A nightmare. The kind that would make any mother ump upright from her bed, gasping for air, desperate to find it was just a dream.
It seemed that sometimes, running water drew her to him. Obviously, it wasn’t his body. Not anymore. Not ever. He had after all, the frame of a writer, built through years of sitting – stooped over his typewriter – drinking black coffee, eating donuts or whatever his wife put in front of him. Some days, he was unaware that he had eaten at all. But the evidence was there. The empty cup, the smeared plate.
“A real dinosaur,” Dad absorbed the miracle below with eyes wide like his son’s, wiped clean of marketing reports and tax forms and the stresses of adulthood.
“C’ mon,” Max yelled as he bounded down the sandy decline toward the spectacle below, his burdens bouncing against the back of his legs.
Maggie knelt among the roses and lilies and purple lilac. The scents merged into a delicate perfume unique to her garden. This was her happy place – the only place where she truly felt safe. Content. Here, she could forget the troubles of the world, and at the same time, truly feel as if she were a part of it.