Agreeing With Grandma. By CpSingleton © 2016
It started with the hissing.
A high-pitched toilet cistern-filling hiss in his ears. It used to crumple his thoughts. It would crush them like dry leaves until it was difficult to create new ones.
He would find himself curled, foetal, in bed for days, unable to cope with the dreary, grey world that span uselessly around him.
Over time, and a remapping of his mindset, he became used to the noise. In some ways it was comforting.
It was like his head was saying: “You’re not dead yet, old boy, so just allow the noise to wash over you.”
He did just that. He let it wash right on over.
It was the visits from his grandmother offering advice on his bed making skills that bothered him most. She was far more abrupt than he recalled her to be when in skin. Almost to the point of being abrupt and rude.
He supposed that death must change a person, therefore he allowed that too to wash over him. She meant well; he assumed.
It was other folk, such as work coleagues and the passengers on the moving train he and they were crammed into, like marshmallows in a greedy child’s mouth, who treat him like a pariah for his new association with her.
“There’s nowt as queer as folk,” his grandma called to him from outside the window with a shrug.
“I have to agree with you there, Gran,” he told her, as he turned away from their stupid frowns and alitosis with a snigger.