dante penrose | seven, fin

Nine times out of ten, if it came from Grampa's mouth, it's total bullshit. Growing up, he made me believe all sorts of crazy things: that he was missing his teeth because Grammy socked him with a yardstick for coming home late one night, that he used to have an apple tree which produced fruit year-round until a flock of turkeys dug it up and flew off with it. He used to swear he found me by walking through the woods one day and hearing a baby's cry coming from inside an old rabbit hole. "I just scooped ya up and brought you back home to your Grammy. 'Course she wanted to keep you once she got her hands on you." It was all in harmless fun, and I guess if nothing else it gave me a good sense of humor, taught me not to take myself too seriously. But once I got older it became clear that actually, my Grampa was missing his teeth because he was old and if he had such an apple tree it would've taken hundreds of turkeys to dig it up and fly away with it. His explanation for where I come from was a more family-friendly origin story than the truth: My Mother, their daughter, died of illness when I was only a little over a year old.

In a way, learning the truth about the world makes me love it less. I guess it's true for most people; I'd always sort of hoped for the opposite. I would love to go back to a time where those silly stories were still true and every question had an answer and none of it lingered in a particularly painful way. But the truth- the real truth doesn't work that way. So when Grampa sits me down across from him, rocking back and forth in that rickety old chair he's had on the front porch ever since I can recall, and he doesn't waste time with formalities, I know this isn't one of his stories. What he's saying is true.

"Grammy's sick," he says. He always thought it would be him to go first- he always loved his fried foods and he still smokes pipe tobacco when he thinks no one is around. "Real sick. Healers don't think it's gonna get any better, said her mind's going." This explains some stuff, now that he's saying it. She's been forgetting a lot these days, keeps calling me by my Uncle's name. I hadn't thought much beyond correcting her, ("Grammy, my name's Dante.") and she'd always just scoff and roll her eyes. ("Of course it is! Sorry, Sweetie.")

"If that's the case, then I reckon I won't be far behind her." Grampa is having a hard time looking in my direction. "So I wanna talk with you now, while I can. Explain some things. About what to do when-" He clears his throat.

"We're leaving you the house and most of the land, save for that front corner your Uncle Tommy's on. You helped us keep it up all this time, it's only fair. It's yours if you want it. There's a lot of money to be made in those trees. But there's something else. You remember that story I told you about the gold being buried somewhere out there?"

Vaguely, I do. Something about a runaway bride hiding her fortune from a greedy new husband looking to collect and then never coming back for it. I'd written it off as another of his stories. "It's true. Somewhere out there, somewhere on our land. It, um-" He makes a motion like he's chewing something, maybe his tongue to keep himself from saying the wrong thing. "It was your Momma's. She told us before she went. I spent ten or twelve years trying to find it for you, but I couldn't. But she wanted you to have it, so I wanted you to know. It's out there somewhere waiting for you."

I can tell by his tone that this isn't one of his stories. Besides, he never jokes about Mom. He puts his hand on my shoulder, still rocking back and forth in that rickety old chair.

"You find that, you'll have something from her, something from us. But you'll be okay. You understand me? We made sure you're gonna be okay."

You can't stop time, and you can't rewind it. But maybe, I think, if I can find that treasure in time- maybe if I can find enough money, I can pay to slow it down for a bit longer.

"I'll find it, Grampa."