Grandpa Wesley’s Trip
“Every line,” Grandpa whispered, “is older than the dust in my bones.”
I stood on tiptoes and looked out. I wanted to count them: the purple, crimson, orange layers on fire in the sun. We squinted at the horizon, faces in the hot wind. I held Grandpa’s hand.
“And right down there…” A glint on his cheek; he was crying. One happy tear. “That’s where my great Grandpa went. The first. Oh, the stories Granny Mary would tell. Brave man, a good man.”
We listened to the roar of the river below, shouting back at us from our own history.
100 words excluding title.