I took a memoir piece, re-vamped it, then fictionalized the characters and events to create this new story.  Fiction is still a bit of a challenge for me.  But I enjoy writing it. 

A GLIMPSE INTO THE HOURGLASS by Sara Etgen-Baker

The autumn winds hurried through the maple trees; their leaves began falling—some fast and some slow—swirling and twirling around Angela’s body until at last the leaves touched the ground.  It was the perfect leaf-kicking day, for the autumn sun burned brightly—like a flaming torch—igniting the colors in all of the leaves.    

So, Angela scurried through her grandfather’s yard—unable to resist crunching all the leaves with their apricot oranges, burgundy reds, tangerine yellows, and chocolate browns.  Then she dove into a soft bed of the dry, colorful maple leaves and lingered there absorbing the warmth of the midday sunshine and inhaling the intoxicating smell of the moist earth and the dried leaves. 

“Angela, stop your dawdlin’!” 

Angela looked up.  Her grandfather was standing over her with a rake in his hand. 

“It’s almost lunchtime.  Those leaves won’t rake themselves, you know.”  He handed Angela the rake.  “I need you to get those leaves raked so I can put them in the incinerator and burn them.”  He turned away and strode toward the back porch.  “I’m guessin’ you’re gettin’ a wee bit hungry by now.”

“Yes, Granddad, I am.”  Angela continued raking the leaves.

“Well then.  Come inside.  I suppose you’ll be needin’ some lunch before you finish rakin’ them leaves.”

  Angela threw down the rake and ran toward the back door, kicking more leaves along the way. 

            “Here’s your peanut butter and jelly sandwich—no jelly, right?”  He placed a plate and glass of milk on the kitchen counter. 

            “Right, Granddad.”  Angela giggled.  “Thanks.  It looks yummy.”

            “Sorry that’s all I have.  I just wasn’t expectin’ you till tomorrow.”  He stood up and grabbed a root beer from his refrigerator.  “You sleep okay last night, darlin’?” 

            Although his silent house had kept her awake, Angela replied, “Yes sir. I did,” followed by, “How ‘bout you?”

            “I’m old—I never sleep well,” he grumbled.  

            The house became still as they struggled with what to say to one another.  So they ate lunch in silence—a silence so thick Angela could feel it drape around her like an old shawl.  After lunch, she pulled it over her shoulders and plopped down into her grandmother’s chair suddenly aware of something else in the house—something different—a faint rustling, a soft presence of some sort.  She didn’t know what it was.     

Perhaps it was the scent of her grandmother’s lavender perfume that lingered in the rich tapestry fabric, stirring memories of when she sat in her grandmother’s lap reading a book or sharing apple cider.  She closed her eyes and remembered when the house was full of noise and her grandmother’s laughter.  Now, though, the house was empty, lifeless, and silent.     

He glanced up from reading his newspaper.  “Your grandmother loved sitting in that chair and watching her grandchildren.”

“I loved sitting in her lap when she sat in this chair.”  Angela watched his face.  “It still smells like her.”

“Yes, it does.”  He adjusted his glasses.  “Her memory kept me awake last night.”

 “The silence last night frightened me and kept me awake.” Angela choked back the tears.

He slowly raised one eyebrow and fumbled for words.  “Why…uh…uh…are you afraid of the silence?”

“Because the silence just makes me miss her more.” Angela wiped at her nose.

“I miss her too.”  He peered over his glasses.  “In the silence I hear her voice and feel her spirit rustling through the house.  In that silence, I don’t miss her as much.”  His chin trembled and his voice cracked.  “I’m terribly afraid I’ll lose her forever if I don’t keep the house silent.” 

He sighed and took a deep breath.  After another moment’s silence he left the room and returned with an hourglass in his hand.  “You know what the infinity symbol looks like, right?”

 

“Yes, Granddad, I do—like an eight lying on its side.”

“Yes.  But if you stand it up, the infinity symbol reminds me of an hourglass—like this one that belonged to your grandmother.”  He pulled his chair close to Angela, leaned forward, and said, “Glimpse into the hourglass at the grains of sand.”  He turned over the hourglass and tapped it. 

Angela stared at the hourglass—mesmerized by the tiny grains of sand as they trickled through the neck of the hourglass.    

“I’d like to think that each grain of sand represents a tiny piece of time—a memory we have of her.  And although the time we had with her was precious and fleeting, each memory brings us pleasure, warms our hearts, and keeps her spirit alive.”  He clutched the hourglass then turned it sideways so it resembled the infinity symbol.  “I’d also like to think that each grain of sand represents her infinite love for us.” 

A smile emerged on his face as he looked in Angela’s eyes.  “I want you to have her hourglass.  Always remember your grandmother’s love for you is imperishable and continues forever—it’s infinite like the infinity symbol.” 

Angela took the hourglass and sniffed back the tears; then they embraced and waited—waited until

the comforting lilt of her grandmother’s spirit surrounded them filling the silence.