I wrote a very short story, which, since it’s only about 700 words, is considered flash fiction. For some reason I like it A LOT. It crystallized several thoughts I’ve had over the past few months. Enjoy!

Don’t Ignore It

The old pick-up truck rattles along the dusty road, never peaking above thirty miles per hour. My grandpa sits hunched over the steering wheel, looking almost as much a part of the car as any of the warped leather seats. I glance idly out the window at the plowed farmlands that stretch on for miles, then look back at my phone.

“It’s faster to get onto the highway and then loop back from the Redwood exit,” I tell him. “It would save us seven minutes. Google Maps says so.”

Grandpa says nothing for a minute, staring ahead from beneath bushy, curling brows. “This is the shortest path between us and your Uncle’s house,” he finally tells me. “Saves gas. Besides, I like the scenery.”

I gaze out at the unremarkable rows of fruit trees. We make this trip at least once a week, so saving seven minutes each way seems like a big enough deal to me, but going the slow route through the farms keeps him happy, so I don’t press the issue any farther.

My Grandpa is pretty opinionated when it comes to how he does things. On our last trip to Walmart, we went over to the travel section so that he could grab a dozen of those really small tubes of toothpaste.

“Why don’t you just get a big one?” I asked him.

“The paste gets stuck in the bottom of the big tubes,” he said as he throws two more travel-sized tubes into the cart for good measure. “It’s more convenient this way.”

I checked the price and grimaced. “You’d save a lot of money.”

“Eh,” he shrugged. “I’m not hurting for money.”

And that’s the way he always is.

He’ll eat raisin bran from a cup, explaining, “We have more cups than bowls. Besides,” he says, raising the mug that he got from Disneyland more than two decades ago, “I like Mickey Mouse.”

Tonight, I’m holed up in my room, leaning over a report I need to have done tomorrow for Mrs. Breagan’s class. It’s almost midnight, and I’m supposed to be writing my opinion on some of Plato’s philosophies. Those two things aren’t mixing well for me.

Grandpa knocks on my door and enters my dimly lit room. Before I can demand why he’s barging in here at 11:52 when he normally goes to bed by 9pm, he motions for me to follow him. “It’s a cloudless sky. The Leonids should be visible tonight.”

“Leonids?” I ask him. I’m feeling both confused and annoyed and I really don’t want to lose my train of thought for the thesis of this paragraph.

“Meteor shower,” he tells me. “Come on. Let’s go sit on the patio.”

I tap my pencil impatiently against my desk. “I need to finish this report,” I tell him. “It’s for school.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “The report will still be here when you get back. Come on.” And then he leaves.

Over the next fifteen minutes, I try to regain my focus. But I just keep glancing out my dark window and imagining my grandpa sitting on the patio alone. Finally, I stand up and make my way out of the dark house to join him on the back porch.

He’s sitting there on the patio swing, gazing up at the sky. He has a blanket over his shoulders and a Donald Duck mug of steaming hot chocolate in his hand. Beside him sits another folded blanket and steaming mug.

I settle down next to him and turn my face to the sky. The blanket staves off the autumn chill and the hot mug feels comforting in my hands. I only have to look at the sky for half a minute before I see the first shooting star streak past.

Grandpa settles back and sighs. “You know,” he tells me softly, “This is the way we are meant to live.” We watch as four more stars stream past in quick succession. “When you find something that makes you happy, don’t ignore it.”

And for the first time, with stars flashing overhead and the crisp, chilly air of an autumn midnight bringing goosebumps to my arms, I think I understand what he means.