Flash Fiction - Blessed

Fire falls photo by Stephen Leonardi

BLESSED

It was late in the evening as the brown loose weaved linen curtains filtered out the last of the setting sun’s light.  A kaleidoscope of light blues, reds and greens flashed on the walls from the small muted television mounted next to the ceiling at the bed’s end.  Richard paid it no mind as the pixelated screen showed rioters silently slamming a road barrier into a plate of glass. 

The rhythmic beep from deep in the display box suspended on a pole emitted softly that Richard was still alive.   On the face of the box were his vitals.  Sinus rhythm was irregular.  Oxygen was 83 despite the clear rubbery hose attached to his nose.  Pulse at 110 gave Richard some sense of anxiety, but it had come down after the last depression of the button on the pain medicine. 

The light brightened the floral cloth screen pulled around his bed as the oversized door to his room opened.  For a brief time, he could hear the buzzing of many voices, a floor buffer and falling blocks from the ice maker as someone filled a small plastic bucket like the one on the stand by his head.   Shortly it all went quiet again.

“Grandpa, it’s Denise.”

Richard feebly raised a gnarled hand in greeting.  “Hi, Sweetheart.”  His voice was low, but still held a strong baritone presence that carried well into the small room.  “I am so happy to see you.”

Denise took the raised hand and dropped into the chair by his side.  “How are you feeling?”

Richard looked at number twenty-six in his lineage.  “I’m doing as well as can be expected in hospice.” 

He could see the moisture dam up in her eyes.

“Now, don’t be sad.  Sharon, bless her heart, and I have lived a blessed life to have gotten to be a part of your lives.  To see you sell lemonade from the stand on the corner of the yard when you were six and when you were so determined to ride that bike after Karen did it first brought joy to me.”  Richard coughed lightly and took a deep breath.  “I’ll just close my eyes for a moment.”

When he woke, Denise was still there holding his hand.  “Thank you for being here.” 

Denise was about to reply when a rapid honking alarm emitted from the I.V. pole. 

He felt her jerk.  “It’s okay.  The nurse will be here in a second.”  As if on cue, the caregiver came in and pushed a button on the unit and took a flat bag down, hung a fat one and departed.

“Daughter of my daughter, I love you.  I pray for you each night that in your disbelief you will find the answer you avoid.”

“What is that, Grandpa?”

“That God is your Father in Heaven and wants you home.”  He squeezed her hand.

“I don’t know, Grandpa.  Religion just preys on the weak minded, to control them, separate them from their money,” she whispered.  “I wish I knew otherwise.”

“Sweetheart, I see God’s hand in everything.”  He fixed her gaze in a vise grip hold.  “Tomorrow, I will be too weak to speak as this transition nears.  I tell you this.  Go to the Horsetails Falls in Yosemite in February.”  He pulled his other hand over and took hers in both of his.  “There, when the trick of light fires the water you will find in your soul only God can orchestrate such a wonder.”

~#~

Denise stood on the high bank as the sun rose gazing at the tranquil scene of water falling over the cliffs edge.  Suddenly the fall turned fiery red orange.  She dropped to her knees and cried. 

“Thank you, Grandpa.  If you can hear me.  I believe.”