His letter brings giggles and tears. She runs her hands across the rough, textured homemade paper, sees the remnants of his former correspondence. He soaks the paper to bleed out the ink, but it never disappears completely.
She misses him, that crazy old man. How long has it been now? Seven years, surely. Is he all right? His whiskey-laced cheek kisses, his whisker-rich bear hugs. Gentle. Comforting. Sincere. Her grandpa is Sunday morning pancakes.
She opens the card and out pops a photo. Grandpa, wrapped in a blanket. It’s in swirls of colour, tropical fruit punch. The lines shimmy down the sides, zig zag back upon themselves. He’s holding a drawing. Her childhood drawing. The pattern for the blanket.
She smiles as the tears splash upon her turquoise blue sweater. He took up knitting after Grandma died. He knitted that blanket, and now he wears it at night, wrapped around his shoulders.
Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Written for Visual Verse prompt Vol 2 Ch 8: