My Cardboard Balcony

When Grandpa Worked In Vineyards by Belinda Roddie When Grandpa worked in vineyards, I wanted to work beside him in the scenery and in the cellars, clipped red hair, a brown pressed tunic to complement greenery. The wine my grandpa made was sweet and I enjoyed each sip even when I was young. Beer never suited me, nor bourbon, so I let light flavors dance atop my tongue. Then Grandpa died, and he gave my brother and me the vineyards to do as we pleased, and while my brother worked out in the fields, he thought the fancy job belonged to me. But every so often, I'll go and toil in muddy jeans upon my grandpa's soil.

"I don't know how to play solitaire." Francis watched the cards dance in his mother's hands. They were wrinkled far beyond her actual age. He wondered if they were actually wrinkles. "Well, I'll teach you." He looked up into her watering eyes. She was so focused on the deck, her lips pursed and thin. True passion for something so simple. Within her worn out face, Francis saw warmth.