Writing Prompt: Grandpa part 1
The first memory I have of my great-grandfather really isn’t memory at all. I have been told this story a million times, so much I can “remember” it happening. I was one, shiny cloudless blue Missouri sky. It was summer, so around June or July. My great-grandfather, a survivor of D-day, was trimming branches off a big tree in our back yard (some people say he was actually mowing the lawn). I was up on the deck with mom, aunt and great-grandma.
The house sits half on a hill, and half not. The garage is under the house next to the basement, putting the deck six feet off the ground with a short landing to break up the stair climb. With a concrete slab at the bottom. The railing on top was red, and the slats were tan or a light brown color. Spaced far enough apart that a small human couldn’t fall through, but this day something went wrong.
I was a big grandpa’s girl and was crying because nobody would let me go down there and “help.” I must have shook the slats or something, because one came loose and I fell through. I don’t remember the fall or the sound of my skull cracking when I hit the ground but I can see grandpa appearing above me and picking me up.
That’s all I have been told. Except after I fell, great-grandfather put up lattice work in an attempt to stop further accidents. Years later, my great-grandfather is gone and the house belongs to someone else; but the porch is still there. The lattice work is gone and the porch had been painted yellow, but the boards are still the ones he placed there. No one had fixed the porch and you can see the bottom wood waiting for another accident.