chapter twelve

Ramble, as James called him, wasn’t dying the way you might think he was. He was not bedridden. He didn’t have cancer or any other disease that requires lots of attention. In fact he could get around the house, use the bathroom, make a sandwich, watch television, and do a multitude of other tasks without aid. It was Ramble’s mind. It did just that, ramble. His real name was Robert; nevertheless, young tongues have a problem with all sorts of words and when James first spoke his name, Ramble was what came out. It’s just a cosmic coincidence that he’d lived up to his nickname. He was merely old and his mind was winding down.

He hadn’t needed much help and he really wouldn’t need much, but he wasn’t much help to James either. He’d sing old and made-up songs to himself. He would say crazy things like monkeys shouldn’t fly without scissors, or I’ve glued my voice shut. Sometimes he would just mumble. Everything he said was like some crazy abstract riddle. And he had his good days and his bad; some days there was no sense to be made and some days only the majority of what he said was gibberish. He would on occasion get a little cranky if he felt he was saying something important and James couldn’t understand him. But most of the time he was pleasant and kept to himself.

There were good days when he’d act like his old self. This could last for days or it could only last for hours, and when he’d come back he’d talk as if he just woke from a bizarre dream.

Today was not one of those good days.

James looked at him for a moment. He looked at his white hair and his pale green-blue eyes. His grandfather looked back at him. Then James spoke, something he did regardless of the fact that it would be a one-sided conversation.

“How are you feeling, Ramble?” he inquired.

“Less of everything more or less isn’t as good as more of everything else I think,” Ramble answered and then continued, “I am not as bad as that.”

“I’m glad you aren’t feeling too bad,” James slowly agreed. His grandfather smiled. “I cut my hand, and had to go get stitches today. I’m okay though. Not too bad. Only four stitches. I just feel really stupid. I was at Mac’s and Rebeka walked in, and I got up to meet her, slipped and a plate broke on my hand,” James paused as if to think through everything. Ramble nodded, “She is so beautiful. Was Grandma beautiful?”

His grandfather looked at him and for a moment James thought that he was actually going to tell him how beautiful he thought she was and that he missed her and thought about her often. “Honeysuckles and ladybugs in December,” was as close an answer James would get.

It was clear to James that he would not get more coherent conversation from Ramble today. He grinned as he stood, kissed his grandfather on the head and walked to his room. As he walked, he heard coming from the armchair, “Tell them not to bury roses for me when I eat peanut butter and banana sandwiches.”

James smiled to himself.