by Cat Mann
****
“Ava.”
My grandpa called to me from behind his closed door. I saw his name, Perry Baio, on the nameplate and tried to suppress the chills that ran down my back.
“Ava, come.”
For the very first time I opened one of the doors in the hospital. My cold scissors in my hand.
“Papa?” I called.
My grandpa was there, in the bed he had always had at his home. I could smell Margaux’s perfume -- baio, For Women; the lavender and vanilla scent hung lightly in the air.
“It’s me, Ava. Don’t be scared; come.”
I walked into the room and my grandpa reached his hand out to me. It trembled and shook. I put his hand in mine and rubbed his bumpy knuckles with my thumb.
“It is my time. I need you to allow me to leave.”
His voice was scratchy and rough.
“What? What are you talking about, Papa?”
He nodded at my scissors.
“Cut the thread, Ava, please.”
I held my scissors up and he smiled.
“Remember, Ava that I love you. Tell your mother I love her, too, very much.”
“Grandpa… I don’t understand.”
“Please.”
Taking the red, beautiful thread in my hands, I watched the colors swirl. In one swift motion, I took the thread across the blade and sliced it in two. Monitors beeped all around me. Bile rose up in my chest. Panic set in; my heart pounded as though it might explode.
