STORIIES: When Grandma Speaks

Just a blurb of inspiration in the middle of the day that had to be written down:

At some point around middle age, which is somewhere around 45 to 55 these days of low cholesterol, low sodium diets and 30 minutes of aerobic exercise daily, you let out a long sigh and realize that yes, you’re comfortable with all your conclusions about life and death so you can put it out of your head and enjoy this last half of your life.  Then your spouse comes home with some cockamamie story about the voice in his head of his dead grandmother who led him to her pearl necklace that nobody else who picked through the house, including thieves—real ones, not just his sisters—discovered before the house is torn down. 

So there he sits, all smug with himself, rolling the luminescent balls like rosary beads between happy fingers .  This man, who is now convinced of God and a life ever after, is in one shining moment of discovery, at peace with the world.  You stare at him, your own theories of reincarnation shot full of holes because they don’t include talking spirits.  And more urgently, you need to figure out how to repair the damage done to the last half century of your life in one hell of a hurry since you figured to take care of it in the next go-round. 

He’s smiling still, and still playing with the damn pearls.  You want to shoot him, or at least smack him in the side of the head because he does not, nor ever will, understand that he’s just screwed up your whole worldview but you can’t because now you know that this is it, this is the whole ball of wax, your one shot at everlasting glory or the eternal fires of hell and you’ve got a lot of redeeming yourself to do already.