For when I stop being there.

Tales around the family reunion camp fire. Grampa plants the seed of thought in the soils of Grace's imagination.

A well-fed flickering fire held the family together like the nucleus of a group-1 element. The warmth and scent of the fire blended with the nocturnal animals' songs to create a monotonous, almost dead, but beautiful aura. Silence. The fire's head bowed as the night's breeze whispers past with the speed of a policeman surveying a low-crime-neighbourhood. The owl kept chatting with the glows eyes of the lit night sky, which seemed uninterested and almost about to look away. The full-moon caressed the earth with the attention of a careful barber man, only leaving sheltered soils untouched.
A man, well invested in years and experience, I looked up to the sky, then back at my wife_a wrinkled, no longer as beautiful, but more than twice as worthy a companion as she was when we were young and lively_, then at my son_Mark_, his wife_Jude_, my daughter_Martha_and three grand children_Zack, Grace and Jane.

'Grampa,' Grace's voice was coated in sweetness, as it pierced through the silence like a sabre sword through boneless flesh. In a heartbeat, she commanded the attention of my soul, a part of me that was never too old to race through the universe a couple of times, before realizing that there was no finish line. Grace was Martha's only child. Standing a bare 0.9 meters and 5 years of age_excluding the 12 months that she spent in my daughter, Martha's, womb. I'd always known that her brain developed at twice the rate of an average child. She wasn't average. She was Grace Mumba. 'Where do people go when they die?' She completed her sentence. She was full of sentences that ended in question marks. She's even use them to answer questions sometimes.
Martha, my only daughter, looked at the product of her kids-play, with the eyes of a fish eagle scanning low waters. My daughter was 26, with a daughter and still not married. Grace was a gifted 'mistake,' many thought. But thinking again, many of us might have been worse. Everyone looked at Grace now. Some with excitement, some, expectation, some wonder and the others, with eyes. I looked at her too. I had been looking at her from the mention of my name, 'Grampa.'
Joyce, the woman whose face I saw on each morning of my 47-year-long married life, stole a glance at Grace, before she fixed her eyes on me. Her hazel, daring eyes were one of the very few parts of her body that had the constancy of change. They always told me stories. This time, however, they seemed to have wanted to hear mine.
'Grace!' Martha tried to rebuke her daughter with the command of a wounded lieutenant on a battlefield. She thought Grace was too young to hear stories of death. I thought she was innocent and bold to start one. My wife, like every other person within earshot, had her thought. They were theirs nonetheless. My worries were Zack, my 8-year-old grandson and his 8-months-old sister, who seemed to pay attention to all she heard and ready to speak it all out when the time was right.
'No. Please.' I spoke in Grace's defense, who seemed not to have needed it at all, 'It's okay.'
Mark, my 37-year-old son was the oldest and biggest member of the family. His left arm hang on Jude's shoulder. Jude was my daughter-in-law. She was just as much family as was Jane, the 8-months-old evidence of fragile life that lay in her arms. Marks was one of those souls that looked with eyes, nothing more. He scanned the area for clues as to what was going on. The fire minded it's own business; feeding on wood in the oxygen, giving us light and warmth. It rarely interrupted. In the short moment of silent looks, I cooked up another 'Grampa story' in my 'mind's kitchen'.
'When people die,' I said, after clearing my throat, 'They stop to be there.' I knew that the theory merited more questions than it answered. I was getting ready for them. Martha and Zack poked the fire. It didn't seem to mind. Maybe it liked to be poked. Through the corner of my right eye, I could make out a vague image of my wife. She wore another one of her smiles. Old, but just the way I liked it. She knew what was coming.
'But Grampa.' The voice of inexperience spoke, yet again. 'How do they just 'stop' being there?' It went without saying that Grace was as smart as she was curious. She needed as much detail as an FBI agent from an only suspect in a case that had no leads.
'You see, when people die, they are buried, and then, they stop being there.' The word 'buried' was a cause for relief to the contracted muscles on Grace's expectant face. She was getting something. We were getting somewhere.
'But my teacher said they go to heaven and become angels.' First-grade teachers said anything they wish, from babies are bought from Shoprite to every other thing that sends kids posing weird questions during family reunions. Zack was hearing the voices around him, the fire, seeing the figures, but he wasn't really there. He rarely was. Jane minded nothing past the warm grip of her mother's hands and formula milk in her bottle. Maybe this could be tonight's c
amp fire story-what happens to people when they die. I like it. Zack, among the grand children, was supposed to know the most about this theme, but anyway, he was not used to telling stories, he was Zack. He just looked on, confusion and wonder all over his face like paint at a fate. I miss those fates I attended.
'My teacher used to say that too.' I said. It was true.
'Who told you that they don't stop being there then?' Grace wanted to get to the bottom of the theme. The inspector wind dashed past again, more determined to move past us this time. The fire bowed so low, it almost toppled over_shooting bits of flaming woods in the air, and some at Jude. She jumped to a start and quickly composed herself. Zack wasn't affected, but moved within his chair, probably pretending to be more careful.
Everything was back to normal. I sipped on my hot chocolate and turned back to my grand daughter.
'I learnt when I grew older.' Grace had an astounding belief in my knowledge.
'I wish people could not just stop being there.' She was going to make a fine actress. She was as natural as sunrise. 'I wish people could always be there.' She seemed sorry.
'But of course Grace. People will always be there. Only different people.'
She looked at me as though telling me that she could read my mind. It's possible that she could, besides, she was my grand daughter, as far as I knew. 'You see. People stop being there so that others can be there.'
'But there'll never be another Grampa Sylvester.' That is my other name. My other other name is Mumba. 'Grampa Sylvester Mumba,' but only to my grand children. Grace always said what she felt, unlike her mother, who found the battle between what to say and how to say it right, hard to fight, let alone, win. Grace was as fond of me as I was of her. She was entertaining, alive and smart. She would dance, sing and act for me. she never had the best voice nor the most swift waist nor best dance moves. But in her, I heard purity and saw sincerity; virtues that would take her around the world if she'd hold on to them. Joyce kept looking at me, then Grace, and everybody around. The switch in the tempo of the mosquitoes reminded me that it was getting late. I knew the perfect way to conclude the theme. After slapping themselves about for a while, Mark and Jude excused themselves and left. They had to turn in soon as they had other matters to attend to early the following morning.
'Grace,' I called her, as the footsteps of her aunt and uncle faded towards the back door of our family house.
'Yes Grampa.' She was calm and thoughtful.
'Do you know anything that was done by anyone that stopped being there?'
'Uhhmmm,' she had to think. She always did. 'Yes!' Remembering something in a short while calls for a sense of accomplishment.
'What is that? And, who did it?'
'My teacher said that the pyramids of Egypt were built by people of Egypt a long time ago.'
'Exactly. You see. Even if people stop being there, we can bring their memories back to life by considering the things they did. That way, we can be sure that at least, a part of them stays with us.' Immortality of memories, one of the old, rusty themes that defined my life through teenage. A poet that was determined to live on through his works. And indeed, I will.
'Grampa.' Grace's face lightened up as would that of a patient with an incurable disease upon learning that a cure has been found.
'Yes Grace,' I took my chocolate mug and gobbled down the last drops of the love portion that my wife had whipped up for me.
'What have you done for when you stop being there?'
I didn't know which would be the best. But I needed a more obvious and tangible thing. Poetry? Acting? Stories? What?
Joyce invited Martha to a private conversation. Joyce and I worried about Martha more than any other child we raised. She was the last-born, only daughter and also the more complex of our children. She deserved the worries.
'Your mother has my blood,' Martha lingered withing earshot. She should have wondered what her father was feeding her daughter with. 'And you have her's. That means that you have the same blood as I do. You see, whenever you can't see me because I don't seem to be there, just look in the mirror. If you look hard enough, you will see me, right front of you.' I could feel her spirit lighten. Martha had heard this before. She slowly walked towards the house, led by Joyce.
'Mum says I have your eyes.' She smiled, flashing 'my eyes' at me.
'Hhmmm. If you have 'my' eyes, does that mean I have 'yours'?' We both laughed. It was funny. But more so, because it was also a moment in which we could release the tension from the thoughts and all. Grace yawned and stretched her arms like an eagle about to take flight.
'Yep. It's time to go to bed.' I said, picking up my empty mug and standing. The fire was almost dying. We had starved it. But then again, maybe it didn't really mind.
'Awwww. Already? Can't we stay for five more minutes Gramps?' That wasn't my name. The word was like a mole in the underground soils of Grace's vocabulary, it only came out when she knew that her odds were paper thin. It was her last resort.
'Well, we could,' I stopped, 'If you don't mind my waking up later than shopping time tomorrow.' No sooner had I completed the sentence than she sprang to her feet like a line's corporal at the sight of a General in a regiment.
'I'll race you to the door!' She said as she took quick stride that graduated into a sprint.
'And I'll hand you the prize.' I lifted my brown, empty mug. She ran to the door. I walked to the door, she eyes escorting me, as though ensuring that I was safe. She patiently awaited her prize, holding on to the door frame with one hand, the other, resting on her hip. A brilliant, smart and lively young lady she'll grow up to be someday. Black shiny hair, fair-light skin, thin eye brows, thin lips and light-brown eyes. My eyes.
She washed the prize upon receiving it. An act that would earn a prize recipient's sanity a benefit of the doubt. But not this time. Not when the prize was my 46-year-old coffee mug. The first gift that joyce got me on our first anniversary.
Despite my rusty joints and hurting back, I carried Grace to the door of the bedroom that Mark, her father, used before he learned that he was too old to live under my roof. I stamped her forehead goodnight with a kiss and made for my bedroom. Joyce was warming her side of the bed and getting tired of waiting for her usual night companionship.
'It's about time.' She whispered as soon as I stuck my face into the room. She was 66-years-old, 6 less than I was, but could still act 25 when she wanted to.
'Really.' I flung my coat into the washing basket, removed my shirt and slipped on my pajamas top. I crawled into bed. 'I thought it was about Grace.'
'She's a blessing, isn't she?' Joyce turned to look at me. She anchored the weight of her upper body on her right elbow and flashed her hazel eyes at me.
'The grace of Jehovah, God? An undeserved blessing.' I love mind games. I always will.
'When, you,' she hesitated. 'Stop being there, I'll stop being there too.'
'I don't think so.' I had to dispute. It's natural.
'Well, there's no complete 'us' without 'u'. And us is all there is to me.' Joyce had always been my princess charming. Sometimes I wondered who the charmer really was.
'You are I am You.' I meant it so much that whenever I look in the mirror and say it now, I mean it just as much.
'I love you.' She said, exposing her beautifully arranged set of teeth.
'I love you more.' I replied.
'I love you most.' I never really liked to lose, but Joyce deserved to win.
'I love you moster.' I smiled at my blessing, my grace, my wife.
'That's not a word!' She argued.
'Well, how about this,' I leaned forward and kissed her lips. They were not as soft as they were when I first kissed them, in an empty conference room, before a poetry show, but the kiss still served its purpose in full_expressing words that the dictionary was too dumb to describe.
'Then in that case, I have a whole conversation for you.' She pulled the duvet over our heads.' I knew what that meant. It was said in English.
'I doubt I'm going to be the listening type tonight though.' I turned off our bed lamp. Just before Joyce began her conversation, a picture of Grace flashed on my mind. She smiled, 'my eyes' in her sockets. It faded. Her voice played in my head. Sweet, innocent and lingering. 'When I'm grown, I'll live through others, for when I stop being there.' I smiled back at thoughts of her and got ready for Joyce's talk. Joyce and I conversed through half of the cool winter night and slumbered through the rest of it.

Reviews

[Krista Weiss]

Great job! :)

[Junert]

This is loving, like the notebook. Better.