They talk about me like I’m not here just because the words inside my brain have lost their way to my lips. Don’t they know I feel the softness of her cheek against mine and smell the scent of peaches in her hair, reminding me of the taste of summer?
She doesn’t shun me, doesn’t recoil from the pungent smell of aging or the roughness of my wrinkled cheeks and beard. I know she knows I hear the words she whispers: I love you, Grandpa.
When I reach for her they grab her by the hand and jerk the child away, leaving me, once again, alone—a prisoner in this body.
Posted in response to the prompt: “Lost” hosted by Lillie McFerrin at Five Sentence Flash Fiction. Stop on by with a story of your own, but hurry up because I’m joining late to the party, as usual.