"Things That Start With Butter" - short story

“Buttermilk.”

“Butterfly.”

“Butternut.”

“Bread and butter!”

“But that’s butter atthe end.”

“What if I eat thebutter first?”

“How can you eat thebutter first on a piece of bread?”

“By licking it off!”

It’s a word game weplay, one of the many ways I keep Kira occupied when her mother is gone. I lovespending time with my granddaughter. She’s beautiful, and it’s not just me whosays that. Kira has a keen mind and is wise beyond her seven years. She’s a lotof fun!

“Buttercup.”

“Butterlicious!”

“Now you’re makingwords up.”

“Grandma, you do thattoo, sometimes.”

“I would never…”

“What about that timeyou tried to convince me that Ant Warp was a place.”

“Antwerp! It’s a cityin Belgium.”

“Have you been toBelgium?”

“No.”

“So, how can you knowfor sure?”

I laugh, push up theblonde bangs from her forehead. Her face is so pretty. Brown eyes and thinlips. Dimples you could die for. She gets them from her mom.

“When’s she comingback?”

I look at my phone.“Soon. She has some errands to run.”

“Oof, always errands.Maybe I’m an errand she should run!”

“You’re not anerrand,” I say, stroking her shoulder. “You’re the reason she runs hererrands.”

“Do you think she’llbuy me that magical unicorn?”

“It’s not yourbirthday yet. That’s in two months.”

“Two months is a longtime.”

“It’ll be here beforeyou know it.”

“We’ve been here along time. When can we go home?”

My phone rings, a loudring. My daughter insisted on a loud ring because I’m hard of hearing. I’m not,I argued, although I knew what she said was true. Partially.

“I’m running late,Mom. There’s traffic, and I didn’t get to the drugstore yet.”

“Kira is gettingimpatient.”

“Why don’t you playone of those word games with her?”

“That’s what we’vebeen doing.”

“Is that Mommy? Let metalk to her!”

I hand Kira my phone,lean back in my chair and smile. My lovely granddaughter. Kira talks with hermother, an exaggerated pleading for her to finish her errands and come back assoon as possible. The conversation ends and Kira returns the phone.

“She said she’ll buyme a Snickers bar.”

“Okay. So, what do youwant to play next?”

“I don’t want to play.I want to go home.”

“I know,” I say. Ican’t promise her that, or anything, for that matter. I look up at the infusionbag, making sure the drip continues at its slow, steady pace. “As soon as thedoctors say you can go home…” I don’t finish the sentence.

“Oof! Always thedoctors!”

She looks sour for aminute, eases back on her hospital bed, as if she’s trying to get as far awayfrom her disease as possible, but then her face lights up.

“Butterscotch!” sheannounces triumphantly, and we both giggle.

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Originally published in Emerge Literary Journal.