The Brass Wind Chime

The Brass Wind Chime

A short story

It has been two months since I last entered my grandfather’s house. Two months since he’d been sent to hospice and I’d returned to pack a small bag.

Now the house, so familiar to me, feels foreign. My key is as difficult to turn as always and I am immediately hit by the faint smell of lemon, my grandfather polished his furniture religiously. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry but my eyes are already burning.

I take a deep breath, hold it, let it out. There will be a time for grief, but that time is not now. I have work to do.

My mother did not want to come. I do not blame her. My grandfather’s death was not unexpected, his decline began some time ago, but it still felt like a surprise. None of us really expected him to go. My father offered to come, but I could see in his eyes that he did not want to.

I start with dusting. I am simply putting off the inevitable, I know this, but the dusting is soothing and gives me a chance to stabilize, gives the burn behind my eyes time to recede.

When every flat surface is spotless, I go to my grandfather’s pantry and lift down the old shoe box. Inside are five letters, carefully marked with my grandfather’s thick, cursive writing.

Daughter. The letter he finished first. After his stroke, my mother hovered around him. They had always been close and we could all see the fear in her. So he wrote her a letter, and told her to open it after he was gone. This seemed to inspire him and he wrote four more.

Son. My father’s letter. My father was always secretly pleased that my grandfather called him his son, though he would never admit it out loud.

Grandson. My little brother, not yet out of high school. This is his first real loss, he was too young to know his grandmother, but he seems to be taking it well.

Richard. My grandfather’s closet friend. My grandfather stamped this letter and wrote an address, but I’ll take it to Richard myself. I can’t stand the thought of him being surprised. These letters are meant to heal, not hurt.

And finally, granddaughter. My letter. I go to my grandfather’s desk, procrastinating still, and sit down in his old leather chair. I carefully pick up the letter opener that fascinated me so as a child. It’s shaped like a sword and he would never let me touch it, worried I would cut myself.

Carefully, very carefully I open the envelop. The thick paper inside has been folded neatly in half. I used to find my grandfather’s cursive hard to read, but I forced myself to learn.

The letter is short. It does not fill the whole page. I should not be surprised, it was becoming difficult for him to hold the pen, but I am. I close my eyes.

He starts by telling me he loves me. He says Saturdays where always his favorite day because he knew he’d see me. He kept every gift I’d ever given him, the bright autumn leaves, the mica filled pebbles, the childish drawings.

I know it has been years since you’ve believed in the faeries, but you’ve humored me all the same. I ask you to humor me one last time.

There’s a cove to which I never took you, though you commented more than once that it looked like the perfect place to fish. This is where the faeries live. I want you to tell them I’m gone.

You’ve always wondered about the wind chime on the back porch. It never moves no matter how hard the wind blows. The faeries made it for me out of brass, which is one of the few metals they can touch. It’s how I call them. Touch it today and make it ring and then take the boat and go to the cove with the bent over tree. Tell the faeries what happened to me. Bring a bottle of milk and some bread.

Thank you. I love you so much. Take care of your mother and tell your father it’s okay to cry (the same goes for you, being stoic will only take you so far). I am so proud of you. I wish I could see who you will become, but I don’t doubt it will be glorious.

Granddad

I carefully fold the letter and return it to its envelope. At this moment, I want very much to hug my grandfather, but I can’t.  I wish I’d asked my dad to come.

My grandfather’s request is a little odd, but then, he always was a little odd. If I asked, he would smile as if he had a secret and tell me not to worry about it. His superstitions were never harmful and made him happy, so we all let them be.

I don’t believe in fairies, but I do believe in my grandfather. I can do this for him.

The fridge has been empty for a while. There’s a local grocery store is few roads down. I walk, hoping it will help me regain the stability the letter and the smell of lemon took from me.

The owner, a woman only slightly younger than my grandfather, recognizes me.

“Is he gone?” she asks softly, when I go to the register with milk and bread.

I nod, pressing my lips together.

She reaches over and squeezes my hand. Her skin is so pale it’s almost translucent and her hand is warm. The burning behind my eyes returns and I have to blink quickly several times.

I clutch the paper bag and walk back to the house that used to be my grandfather’s. I realize that this might be the last time I walk these roads. As familiar as they are, once my grandfather’s things have been dealt with, I will have no reason to return.

The wooden rowboat has been pulled up onto the grass and is covered with a tarp. It is still in good shape after all of these years. I pull it down to the water and it bobs slightly in the gentle rise and fall that is the closest the lake gets to a tide. I tie it to the dock, which is also in good shape, though it is beginning to show some signs of age. Several of the boards are sagging. I will need to be careful where I step.

The oars are inside, balanced precariously in the closet next to my grandfather’s winter coats. I lift them up and take the grocery’s paper bag and bring them to the boat.

On his back porch, the wind chime is still. It gleams dully in the daylight. I have never seen it move. I reach up to touch it. I have to drag over a chair so I can reach. The metal is cool against my fingertips. It is very simple. It has no intricate patterns. There is a metal ring from which seven cylinders hang. They are solid, not hollow as most wind chimes are. In the center of the cylinders, also hanging from the ring, is a metal disc. Hanging from the disc is a string, fishing line I realize and a polished stone that I recognize. I found it on the shore one summer and gave it my grandfather because it had a hole that went all the way through and so it was special. I shake the stone and for the first time, I hear the wind chime. It does not clink. It rings. The sound is deep, but soft and does not linger long. I ring it again.

I step down from the chair. I still hear the wind chime echoing in my mind though the air has gone silent.

I go to the dock and untie the boat, stepping in just as it starts to drift away. It rocks and a steady myself with the ease of old habit. How long has it been since I last went fishing? Almost six months, a week before my grandfather’s first stroke. The air had been icy with a bite that could not be kept out with even the thickest of coats. This lake never froze, it was too large and this was not far enough to the North, but that day I almost thought it might. We caught nothing and my grandfather told me about the one time he’d tried to go ice skating with my grandmother. It had been her idea and she’s skated circles around him. He said she finally took pity the fourth time he’d fallen and they peeled of their skates and bought two cups of hot chocolate and watched the other skaters carve delicate patterns into the ice. When we made it back to his house, both of our noses were bright red and he said I looked like Rudolph. I asked if that made him Santa.

I grab the oars and drive them into the water. It takes a few minutes to find my rhythm. If I close my eyes, I can almost believe my grandfather is in front of me, fishing pole in hand, tackle box at his feet, carefully sifting through his hand-made lures.

When I was a child, I would sit on the prow and he would row. I would lean over and let my fingers drag through the water. He’d always tell me to be careful not to fall in, and in my childish obstinacy I would lean over farther. One day I did fall, but it was summer and cellphones weren’t a thing yet, at least not for me. My grandfather panicked anyways and lunged to grab me. He landed in the water too and I started laughing. He laughed with me, feeling a little foolish I think. After all, he knew I was a good swimmer, he’d been the one to teach me. I splashed him and he dove down and grabbed my foot. I shrieked. Eventually we managed to get back in the boat, soaking wet and very cheerful.

I know exactly which cove my grandfather means. It’s near our favorite dusk fishing spot. I always noticed it because it was unusually tiny and a tree formed a perfect arch over it, making it look like a gateway to another world.

A bright blue dragonfly swoops in the air in front of me and I stop rowing for a moment. This lake is infested with dragonflies. If I am still, this one might land on me. It doesn’t, but it does linger by the prow for a moment before flitting off to merge with the sky.

Often, you will see two dragonflies linked together, flying in unison. When I was eight, I asked my grandfather why and he told me. I was fascinated, and that night my mother couldn’t decide whether to be furious or amused.

“It’s the birds and the bees, not the birds and the dragonflies," she said.

“We didn’t see any birds today Mom,” I said. “The heron rock was empty."

She ruffled my hair and decided to be amused.

It takes me longer than it should to get to the cove and when I do my heart clenches. I’m not sure why. I know there is no magic here.

I slide under the hanging tree and the air is instantly cooler, almost chilly. The trees block out the sky, and the heat, and the sun. The cove is so shallow that I could stand in the water and it would not reach my waist.

I am not quite sure what to do. I take out the bottle of milk, still cool though no longer cold and open it. I slowly pour it into the water and see the ribbon of white twist and separate and vanish. My grandfather used to leave a bowl of milk on the porch every night. Sometimes it was gone by the morning. I suspected cats or raccoons, though I wasn’t sure either actually drunk milk. My grandfather took this as evidence of faeries, though his belief didn’t rest on anything so cold and heartless as proof.

I open the bread, crumble it in my hand. Let the crumbs fall. I do this several times, though the loaf is nowhere near done. A minnow darts up to eat one of the crumbs. If I leave my hand in the water long enough, it might nibble on my finger. I caught one this way once, and wanted to keep it as a pet. My grandfather asked if I would want to be kept in a room for the rest of my life and I let it go.

I open my mouth.

“Hello,” the word sounds wrong. This is not a place made for human voices.

“Grandad sent me,” I feel so foolish.

“He… He’s…” I don’t want to say it. Saying it won’t make it real. It’s already real, but goddammit he can’t be gone.

“He had another stroke. He tried to hold on, but he couldn’t. He’s-“ I swallow, “dead."

My voice is almost steady, but there’s a crack there, at the end. I can feel the lump in my throat. It feels like I’ve swallowed a ball of spikes.

I wait. Hoping, for what? Faeries? My grandfather? For all of this to dissolve like a dream?

Nothing happens.

Finally, floating there in the silence, I allow myself to cry.