Grandfathers Girl

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
This short story, decribes the life of a girl by the name of Mimmie. Her granfather dies leaving her alone in the small cottage, she faces the chalenges of life and finaly in the end finds home.

Submitted: January 12, 2011

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Submitted: January 12, 2011

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I find my self remembering that not long ago, still fresh in my memory like it happened yesterday; the little toddler I was, jumping into my grandfathers arms, him twirling me through the air. Kissing my freckled cheeks. Brushing back my curly blond hair-

“Mimmie” he calls quietly. I grab hold of his trembling hands.

“papa” I’m leaning in to hear his words.

“Mimmie…” he calls again. “I feel that I will pass soon-”

“papa, don’t say that you know I need you, your all that I have, you cant just leave, not yet, not now!”

“my child, you were always so stubborn like your mother” he smiles remembering her. The mother I never knew. “my dear child, come here let me hold you…”

I come and rest my head on his wide chest. He wraps his strong casting arms around me.

“Mimmie I will always be with, you right here” he points to his heart. I listen to his hoarse breath and the motion if his chest rise and fall. Slowly, he continues.

“you are everything to me and I don’t want your life to end when mine does. I want you to go on without me, you deserve to live life and what it brings.” I nod. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply.

“Mimmie, I love…you” he squeezes my hand one last time as he slowly drifts off to a sleep he will never wake up from.

My tear streaked face watches as the settlers carry the burning torches and slowly the casket holding grandfather burns away leaving its dust and ashes. I’m remembering his last words, and acknowledging how now without my dear papa I’m left alone in this world with no one to love me. My heart is leaking with grief and fresh tears silently pour down as if never going to end, like a forever flowing river.

I walk back to once the little cottage we used to share together, full of light, love , and memory. It’s quite now and cold. Still and untouched as if grieving also for its never returning owner. I start the fire and put up the kettle. The steam fills the room and I slightly crack the window open. Listening to the rain begin to fall, slapping against the withered and dry soil. Grandfather would have ran out and laughed, grabbed his bag full of pine-seeds and set out to ‘cover the mountains with the green majesty of the forest’ as he would say it. Then there would be me, running after him and yelling for him to get back in side or he’ll catch a cold. But of course whatever papa set his mind on no one could change. Planting seeds was his life. You could almost say he was the second Jonny Apple Seeds. He would go out every rail fall and plant his seeds. It is the best time, he would always tell people; just right when the soil is still a little dry. He would cast the seeds and let the rain soak into the soil and bring the seeds to life.

Years passed and I had left the small cottage home to live in the city. Money ran out, and the cold winter nights with little to eat was not a way to survive. I got a job and often on Sunday afternoons sold pine-seeds on the streets, for a little extra income. That’s how I met a handsome rich man and we were married. My life passed in a blur. I was happy and lived my life like never before. No more cold winter days alone huddled close to the crackling fire. But as everyone says things come and they go. My children grew up, married and moved away. Not long after a terrible fever broke out and my husband died. I was left yet again alone. I had everything, a big home, money, servants. But none of this brought me happiness anymore.

I remembered grandfather. And our little cottage back east. I gathered some of my belongings and set out back to were papa was. Papa and his trees.

When I first saw the little cottage, it was unrecognizable. The door was withered away, roof cracked, windows bordered. I set to work and repaired it. As piece by piece was put back to its place, it was like pieces of me were coming back together.

I climbed the little hill that over looked the valley. My small cottage, the pine trees surrounding it; it all felt right. I was home again, and right here with me; I touched my heart, was papa. A rain drop hit my nose. I looked up and saw the sky cloud grey. I reached into the old familiar bag that always hung snug on my grandfathers shoulder. Feeling the seeds I remembered his words. ‘A handful of pine-seeds will cover mountains with the green majesty of the forest’ I smiled, as the rain started coming faster, remembering that familiar sound of rain against dry soil.

I too will set my face to the wind and through my handful of seeds on high. I thought to my self. I’ve found home. I’m whole again.


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