Creative Nonfiction

Two sets of eyes, fixed on each other, neither blinking. One set, bright and blue and full of life. Those eyes stare purposefully. The other, not quite so bright or blue, are hollow and drawn and stare without choice. 

“Robert, what are you doing?” The voice shatters the silence and ends the contest in a draw.

“I don’t know Grandma,” Robert responds as he attaches himself to the old woman’s leg. "I tried to talk to him, but all he did was stare. I thought maybe he wanted to have a contest.”

The idea catches the old woman as unexpectedly funny. She chuckles, but only for a moment before being struck with melancholy. “No sweetie, Grandpa Edgar isn’t trying to win a staring contest,” she says as she picks up the young boy. “He is just searching his mind for memories.”

“Searching his mind? What does that mean?”

There is no good way to explain Alzheimer’s to a eight-year-old boy, but she instinctively knows it is a grandmother’s duty to try. “Come over here and I’ll tell you.” She motions to the boy to join her on the comfortable chair she has placed in the room so she can spend time with her husband. He jumps into her lap, as young boys are wont to do, and settles down next to her. “You see, Robert, your mind is like your house. It’s a small home when you are young. You don’t need many rooms.”

“What color is it?”

“I don’t know? What color do you want it to be?” she responds with a grin.

“How about gray?”

“Gray it is.” She smiles at his perfect choice. “Now where was I?”

“My house is small because I’m little.”

“Yes, that’s right. You have a room for eating, sleeping, and playing.”

“And a room for you, Grandma.”

“I hope so,” she responds as she tickles him a bit. “As we get older, we build more rooms.”


“Because we need a room for friends, school, and maybe even a pet.”

“Can I have a dog in my house?”

“Robert, you know that’s not up to me, but maybe we can talk about it with your dad when he gets here.”

“Ok, but what about Grandpa’s house? Why was he searching for memories?”

“I was getting to that,” she says, enjoying his questions. “You see Grandpa has been building his house for a very long time. It has more rooms than you can count.”

“Like a mansion?”

“Yes, a lot like a mansion. He has rooms where he goes to remember his mom and dad and rooms for all his childhood friends. He has rooms for the horses he used to ride on the farm he grew up on and rooms where he visits his friends from the army.”

“Why doesn’t he just go and visit them for real?”

“When you are young, all of your friends are close, sometimes within walking distance. When you get a little older, like Grandpa and me, your friends scatter to the winds. Many of them only exist in your memories.”

“So, some of Grandpa’s friends can only be found in his house? In his memories?”

“That’s right.”

“But why does he have to search for them? Why are they so hard to find?”

“Memories are like leaves in a strong wind—they blow by, and you only get to see them for a few moments.” 

“Like candy wrappers?”

“Candy wrappers?”

“Yeah, last Halloween I filled my pockets with candy and went to a special spot at my school.”

“You went to school by choice?”

“It was Saturday, Grandma. Saturday is when school is cool.”

“Good point,” she says smiling.

“My school is practically in my backyard, and on Saturdays, there is no one around. There is a large cubby where I can hide. It has brick walls on three sides, and when it's blowing, the wind spins everything in a circle, kind of like a tornado.”

“A tornado?” she says, pretending to be afraid.

“It’s not really a tornado, but when I let one of the candy wrappers lose, it spun and spun.”

“That’s a room, Robert. You built it for a very special memory. Did you try to catch the wrapper?”

“No, I just watched it until mom called me in for dinner,” he answered matter-of-factly. “What memory is Grandpa looking for?”

“Well, Robert, your Grandpa’s house—”

“His mansion!”

“Yes, your Grandpa’s mansion is not only very large, it's very old. Sometimes as things get older, they don’t work as well as they used to.”

“Like my first bike. I loved that bike. My mom said I was too big for it, but I rode it until it broke.”

“It’s a lot like that,” she says, as she gives the little boy a hug.

“Grandpa Edgar loves his memories like you loved that bike, but it’s getting harder and harder for him to find them.”

“Does he remember me, Grandma?”

“You are one of his favorite memories. When you were born, from your very first day, he called you Pumpkin.”

“That was him? I remember being called Pumpkin, but I couldn’t remember by who?"

“It was your Grandpa, and when he stares at you, I know he is searching the rooms of his mansion, trying to find those memories, trying to find his Pumpkin.”

“I think I understand now, Grandma. Should I stare at him some more—will it help?”

“I’m sure it would,” she replies, as she starts to get up from the chair. “But right now it’s time for some lunch. How about bologna and cheese? That was your dad’s favorite.”

“Ok, Grandma, ” Robert responds, taking the old woman's hand to lead her to the door.

“Pumpkin.” The voice trembles, but the word is clear. The two of them turn around to see a smile on Grandpa Edgar’s face, his eyes, the windows in his mansion, now bright, welling with tears.

“He found me, Grandma!”

“He found you.”

“Are the tears like rain at his mansion?”

“They sure are, Robert. Gentle rain and joyful tears.”

September 19, 2021 17:07

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Zelda C. Thorne
14:59 Apr 04, 2022

Lee, this was so beautiful. I lost my father last year to Alzheimer's and needless to say I'm now crying. It was a charming way to broach the subject matter. I think that the fact this didn't win or get shortlisted is proof that competitions are highly subjective and we shouldn't stress about it too much. Winning isn't everything.


Thom Brodkin
15:06 Apr 04, 2022

I think this comment is worth more than any trophy. My dad was dealing with dementia at the end and my daughter really didn't understand. This was my way of making a very tough complicated disease a little more understandable because truth be told even those of us who understand struggle to understand. Thank you so much.


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Ben Connolly
21:28 Sep 27, 2021

Wow, I really like this! Well said and quite convincing.


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19:58 Sep 27, 2021

this was good i wish i could write stories or events as well as you do


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01:10 Feb 17, 2022

Heartfelt, tender, and perfectly human. I love the dynamic between the grandmother and grandson. You handle a sensitive topic with great love and compassion. Loved this with all my heart.


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Shoshana A
15:37 Sep 30, 2021

Beautiful story ❤


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Holland Wells
14:50 Sep 30, 2021

Great read I.B. Dunn, thank you for a good read,


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Stevie B
19:01 Sep 29, 2021

This was intriguing to read and very tenderly written. You have a lot of talent, my friend.


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Andrea Magee
08:43 Sep 29, 2021

So sweet and tender! This story made me cry. Great job!


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Keya Jadav
09:08 Sep 28, 2021

This is so sweet! It's fantastic how you portrayed the innocence of the eight-year-old and the lovely way of her gran explaining the beautiful concept. Nice Work.


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