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Description
A hundred years ago my grandfather fought monsters in his head. When my grandmother met him, she swore to the heavens to rid him of those monsters. My grandmother lit a match, threw the match into his head, and closed the lid.

But the fire never went out.

Grandfather produced a fiery bunch of generations, those with wicked tongues and wild hair but eyes as blue as the sea. Every child was born with wanderlust and a lust for words. Every adolescent looked like trouble but was really the smartest in the class. All part of the plan, grandfather would say.

They say I’m the last one left though, because those fiery generations are burning out. Now, most of the family is nothing more than ashes inside empty shells. My mother says I’m nothing like my father’s father, that instead I take after my mother’s mother. I insist not, because I’d rather not drink myself to the grave.

One day my grandfather pulled me aside into the darkness so I could see the fire, still glowing in his eyes. He held up a mirror to show me that I too had fire growing inside of me. Don’t ever let it burn out, he’d say. Don’t ever let someone throw water on your heart or you will crumble to ashes.

But many days and many nights passed and I soon forgot about the fire. Once in awhile I could feel its warmth, but it happened so infrequently I couldn’t recognize it. A few people tried to extinguish it, and a few people succeeded. I forgot the burn. I forgot the warmth. Most importantly, I forgot where I came from.

Then my aunt died, leaving my grandfather the last child in his generation. His hair turned white and his eyes glazed over blue, and suddenly he wasn’t the brave old man who would go to the ends of the Earth for me. He was now the old man with a heart disease, fake hips that made him walk slowly, and fragile hands that were only good for praying. He was now an old man who knew his day could be any day. And it broke my heart.

He was fishing through the closet. I’m looking for my hat, he said.

Why, I asked.

My father called from the dining room, Aunt Helen just passed.

Grandfather looked at me with his watery blue eyes and smiled. She died at noon.

Is that why you’re looking for your hat? I asked.

I am not going to see my sister’s dead body, he replied.

And we talked about Aunt Helen and if she was being cremated. When was the funeral? Did she accept Jesus before she died? Was she in pain? Then the conversation turned when grandfather said, I’m the last one left.

What?

Yeah. I’m the last child. There were five of us. And I’m the only one left. I’m 78 years old and no one in our family has lived over 85, and she died today, grandfather ended.

Suddenly, I started to burn.

I hugged my grandfather and told him I loved him. I could still feel his fire burning deep within; it wasn’t as young and strong as it used to be, but it was there and that was all that mattered. When I wrapped arms around him and held him tight, I noticed a mirror. I looked at my reflection through the glass.

Fiery blue eyes stared back at me.

Description
A hundred years ago my grandfather fought monsters in his head. When my grandmother met him, she swore to the heavens to rid him of those monsters. My grandmother lit a match, threw the match into his head, and closed the lid.

But the fire never went out.

Grandfather produced a fiery bunch of generations, those with wicked tongues and wild hair but eyes as blue as the sea. Every child was born with wanderlust and a lust for words. Every adolescent looked like trouble but was really the smartest in the class. All part of the plan, grandfather would say.

They say I’m the last one left though, because those fiery generations are burning out. Now, most of the family is nothing more than ashes inside empty shells. My mother says I’m nothing like my father’s father, that instead I take after my mother’s mother. I insist not, because I’d rather not drink myself to the grave.

One day my grandfather pulled me aside into the darkness so I could see the fire, still glowing in his eyes. He held up a mirror to show me that I too had fire growing inside of me. Don’t ever let it burn out, he’d say. Don’t ever let someone throw water on your heart or you will crumble to ashes.

But many days and many nights passed and I soon forgot about the fire. Once in awhile I could feel its warmth, but it happened so infrequently I couldn’t recognize it. A few people tried to extinguish it, and a few people succeeded. I forgot the burn. I forgot the warmth. Most importantly, I forgot where I came from.

Then my aunt died, leaving my grandfather the last child in his generation. His hair turned white and his eyes glazed over blue, and suddenly he wasn’t the brave old man who would go to the ends of the Earth for me. He was now the old man with a heart disease, fake hips that made him walk slowly, and fragile hands that were only good for praying. He was now an old man who knew his day could be any day. And it broke my heart.

He was fishing through the closet. I’m looking for my hat, he said.

Why, I asked.

My father called from the dining room, Aunt Helen just passed.

Grandfather looked at me with his watery blue eyes and smiled. She died at noon.

Is that why you’re looking for your hat? I asked.

I am not going to see my sister’s dead body, he replied.

And we talked about Aunt Helen and if she was being cremated. When was the funeral? Did she accept Jesus before she died? Was she in pain? Then the conversation turned when grandfather said, I’m the last one left.

What?

Yeah. I’m the last child. There were five of us. And I’m the only one left. I’m 78 years old and no one in our family has lived over 85, and she died today, grandfather ended.

Suddenly, I started to burn.

I hugged my grandfather and told him I loved him. I could still feel his fire burning deep within; it wasn’t as young and strong as it used to be, but it was there and that was all that mattered. When I wrapped arms around him and held him tight, I noticed a mirror. I looked at my reflection through the glass.

Fiery blue eyes stared back at me.