Sitting in silence is a deadly form of torture guaranteed to drive any sane person mad. “These lib-tard, buddhist, meditators and their silence game. Bah! I say. You’re all a bunch of overthinking navel gazers who need to pull your heads out of your ass.” He laughed at himself, picking at the dirt under his nails. Overthinking navel gazers. That’s a good one.
He looked out over his back yard. Under-watered, weeds overflowing, and he wondered if Zeala would disagree with him. She loved to counter his biting edicts. It was a favorite past time of theirs. He would take a firm, black and white position. And she would tease him and then relentlessly pull his argument a part. It was one of the things he loved most about her. But the kids these days, they don’t debate, they just roll their eyes and look at him like he’s some old coon with a zealot streak. It had never really bothered him until she arrived. One of his granddaughters, showed up on the doorstep, unannounced and moved in. He had been so surprised by her entrance that he had just gone along with it. Showed her to the guest room, given her clean towels and told her, he had breakfast at 7.
He had so many grandkids, he forgot their names and ages. Like this one, it was on the tip of his tongue and would not quiet reveal itself. He thought about sneaking into her wallet when she was in the shower to see if there were a bankcard or ID with it on there. He knew for sure she was one of his, early 20s perhaps, he remembered the face, even the father, but her name. “Bah!” he said in disgust shaking his fist at the yard. You won’t beat me. This happened all the time now. Names, places, timelines got all jumbled in his memory. I’ll sneak a peak he thought. It’s been three days and he really should know her name.
He stepped back in doors, and spied her meditating in the living room. He suppressed a chuckle, and crept down the hallway to her room. Gently pushing the door open, his eyes traveled over the space. She was the tidy sort. Bed made, clothes neatly folded and stacked, and there, on the bedside table, her wallet. He glanced behind him, no sign. Good. He crossed the room, snatching up the wallet and rifling through the contents. Some cash, a receipt for something and bank cards. He sighed with relief, pulling out two cards. One read Cassandra Day and the other read Olivia Banks. He was pretty sure neither of them were her. He pulled out more cards and finally found a drivers license. He sighed like a long slow wind and inhaling, caught the scent of rosemary. Of course, now he remembered.