HOME | DD

Description
   I could still hear the static from the radio...a vintage Zenith, my father had bought at Woolworth. At night when I would stay up late, and sneak back down to the living room to listen, it usually ended up in a bit of angry disappointment. There were only a few radio stations out there, and they had signed off by the hour my parents were snoring and I crept into the living room in my bathrobe and drawers. To be honest, even though I was now eighteen, the darkness of the house still seemed creepy. My grandmother had died in this very room, eight years ago this night. My mom and dad were out and there my grandmother sat rocking, as I struggled to read by the candle, and the bluish light from the moon through that huge picture window. It was grandma's evening ritual to sit and rock in the dark while she fingered the beads of her Saint Therese of Lisieux rosary and whispered faint pronunciations of rote prayers. Suddenly, grandma looked up, and fear pierced her face as sudsy white bubbles poured from her mouth. I tried to speak as I saw grandma's grip on her rosary beads grow so tight her clenched fist began to drip blood. But the sight my young eyes were about to witness made all this seem barely noticeable. The drops of blood from grandma's fist began to move, and run together on the hard wood floor, and for an instant a figure of black, bathed in blood, rose from the throbbing puddle and appeared to cry, then as fast as it appeared, it was gone. My grandmother leaned forward in the rocking chair, now silent, and motionless.
   I shake my head and rub my eyes to oust that horrific memory. After all, it must have been a nightmare. The terrifying dream of a boy left alone to witness his grandma's death. A boy barely old enough to comprehend the truth of death. And eternity.
   The static faded from the old Zenith. The room suddenly felt huge, and empty, as I sat in the middle of it. Alone. Vulnerable.

Description
   I could still hear the static from the radio...a vintage Zenith, my father had bought at Woolworth. At night when I would stay up late, and sneak back down to the living room to listen, it usually ended up in a bit of angry disappointment. There were only a few radio stations out there, and they had signed off by the hour my parents were snoring and I crept into the living room in my bathrobe and drawers. To be honest, even though I was now eighteen, the darkness of the house still seemed creepy. My grandmother had died in this very room, eight years ago this night. My mom and dad were out and there my grandmother sat rocking, as I struggled to read by the candle, and the bluish light from the moon through that huge picture window. It was grandma's evening ritual to sit and rock in the dark while she fingered the beads of her Saint Therese of Lisieux rosary and whispered faint pronunciations of rote prayers. Suddenly, grandma looked up, and fear pierced her face as sudsy white bubbles poured from her mouth. I tried to speak as I saw grandma's grip on her rosary beads grow so tight her clenched fist began to drip blood. But the sight my young eyes were about to witness made all this seem barely noticeable. The drops of blood from grandma's fist began to move, and run together on the hard wood floor, and for an instant a figure of black, bathed in blood, rose from the throbbing puddle and appeared to cry, then as fast as it appeared, it was gone. My grandmother leaned forward in the rocking chair, now silent, and motionless.
   I shake my head and rub my eyes to oust that horrific memory. After all, it must have been a nightmare. The terrifying dream of a boy left alone to witness his grandma's death. A boy barely old enough to comprehend the truth of death. And eternity.
   The static faded from the old Zenith. The room suddenly felt huge, and empty, as I sat in the middle of it. Alone. Vulnerable.