2025 Short Story & Essay Contest: Second Place, High School Essay Contest
By Caroline Easley
My siblings and I gathered at the wooden dining table in our grandparents’ kitchen. The soft beeps of various appliances blended with creaks from Grams’ well-worn wooden table. She placed a few paper plates at each of our placemats while Grandaddy prepared bread rolls. Each roll was carefully buttered––eight in total, so each of us could have two. His quiet presence anchored the room. Now, I realize how much silence can hide.
The excitement among my siblings and me was palpable. Nothing was more thrilling than spending the night at our grandparents’. We could barely contain ourselves, waiting to dig into the meal in front of us. But we held back until Grams and Granddaddy joined us. Once they sat down, the scene at the table erupted: mouths were full, and manners were out the window. The scent of warm bread and the sound of laughter saturated my grandparents’ kitchen.
But even the warmest kitchens grow cold.
—
The next time we gathered, a seat was empty. The room’s warmth dissolved into a suffocating chill. The lines on Grams’ face had hardened. Grandaddy had taken his own life.
A nebulous dread clouded the memories of our time together. The snow globe that once danced with snowflakes had cracked. The fond memories of my childhood drained slowly––seeping into my hands and slipping through my fingers. I tried to patch the crack, but the effort only delayed the inevitable. The memories fell, scattering like shattered glass across the cold tile floor.
Now, I see Grandaddy at the dining table again, his eyes fixed on the meal before him. What I once thought of as quiet shyness has the weight of something heavier, something unspoken. He excuses himself from the table to rest in bed.
I picture him: his tired eyes, the dark shadow looming behind him. I wish I could go back, stand beside him, and fight the shadow myself––tear it away, just for a moment. At the time, I didn’t know its weight, suspended by my ignorance. Now, that burden has fallen on me, waking me too late to change anything.
I see him battling the shadow. The pill organizer, each compartment containing capsules of hope––each pill a fragile promise, an ephemeral victory against ceaseless blows.
Eventually, Grandaddy’s armor grew rusted and worn. The blows became too much to endure.
I do not fault his surrender, but wish his opponent had been weaker. Only after years of reflection do I begin to grasp the complexities of his struggle. Now, I carry his memory not as a broken snow globe, but as a reminder of the strength it takes to battle what we can not see. I remind myself to carry light, even when shadows remain invisible.
