TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:
A strong, biting wind sent vibrant yellow leaves and candy wrappers flying. The gray mansion with peeling paint appeared to be abandoned but muted lights appeared in the windows every night. The neighborhood children hurried by the old magician’s house with their lit pumpkins. Nobody dared open the rickety gate, and venture to the front door. If only they knew the real story…
(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)
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 disease to a six-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 smile.
“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?”
“Memories are like leaves in a strong windóthey blow by and you only get to see them for a few moments.”
“Like candy wrappers?”
“Yeah, last Halloween I filled my pockets with candy and went to a special spot at my school. It has brick walls on three sides, and when it’s blowing, the wind spins endlessly 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 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 houseó”
“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 remember.”
“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. Do you remember?”
“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 moreówill 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.”