Four Seasons

Short Fiction ~ Paul Germano 

Honourable Mention, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 19 

In the winter, Andy Fitzgerald and Judy Bartolucci make snow angels in Andy’s backyard, vigorously flapping their snow-suited arms and legs back and forth. They both jump up, eyeing each other’s angels. “Yours looks better,” Andy says. “Uhhh, yeah,” Judy says in a slightly snarky tone. Then thinking, she studies the two snow angels and shakes her head. “No, yours looks better,” she says somewhat reluctantly. From the window, Andy’s gruff-voiced mother calls out. “Mother of Christ! It’s cold out there! You kids come inside and warm up. I’ll make hot cocoa.”
In the summer, Andy and Judy, now both 19, are on the beach in their colorful swimsuits and trendy sunglasses, busying themselves with an elaborate sandcastle. While Judy puts the finishing touches on one of the towers, Andy lowers his sunglasses and looks over its rims. “We’ve talked about it enough times, so let’s make it official.” He already knows what her answer will be, but he asks anyway. “Judy Bartolucci, will you marry me?” She strokes at her sun-tanned face. “Uhhh, yeah,” she says. They laugh and reach over the sandcastle for an arms-outstretched hug, then scootch in closer for a kiss. They plop down on their backs, flattening the sandcastle into an unrecognizable messy glob of gooey wet sand. With giddy faces, they stare up at the bright blue sky. He reaches for her hand, giving it a tight squeeze. She returns the favor, squeezing his hand even harder.
In the spring, at a rented hall where their 40th anniversary party is underway, family and friends form a wide circle around Judy in her shimmering lavender gown and Andy in a rented tux, applauding the couple as they glide gracefully around the dance floor to “Forever Young.” Judy had given the deejay specific instructions to play the song for their first dance, insisting on the Joan Baez version. “Dylan, God love him, is incredible,” Judy had told the deejay, “but when it comes to singing, Joan’s voice is absolutely enchanting.” When Joan Baez’s serenade finishes, the deejay leans into the mic. “Okay everybody, one more slow song, then we’re gonna up the energy level. Way, way up!” As the second slow song gets underway, their oldest grandchild; 17, lean and cocky; steps forward and taps Andy’s shoulder. “My turn Gramps,” he says. Judy pinches her grandson’s cheek hard enough for him to say “ouch,” then throws her arms around him. Andy, proud and smiling, points a friendly finger at their youngest grandchild, a 6-year-old girl in a frilly pink party dress. Her hair is fixed in a lovely French braid despite her initial objections and thanks largely to her mother’s painstaking persistence and braiding expertise. She eyes her grandfather. “Me?” she shyly whispers. “Yes honey, you.” Giddy and nervous, she runs over to him. He reaches down; she reaches up. With their hands grasping tightly, Andy waltzes her around the room. The applauding continues and Andy waves others to join the four of them on the dance floor. By the time the second slow song finishes, the dance floor is crowded. Living up to his promise, the deejay ups the energy level running through a parade of party favorites: “The Twist,” “YMCA,” “Sexy and I Know It,” “Despacito” and on and on and on. At the end of the night, in a Champagne toast, Andy raises his glass. “Judy, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” The crowd oohs and awes and Judy nods her head in agreement. “Uhhh, yeah,” she says to the utter amusement of their party guests. Then, eyeing her husband, she taps at her heart and in a much softer voice, says “I love you.” 
In the fall, Andy sits quietly in a chair next to their bed. Judy stays warm in a flannel nightgown with the covers pulled up to her chin. Andy buttons up his cardigan, then finds her hand under the covers and gives it a tight squeeze. Their bedroom windows rattle from a furious autumn wind. The walls glisten from a fresh coat of paint, a “welcome home gift” from their second oldest grandchild and his wife. He’d told his grandfather: “When Gram comes home from the hospital, the calm blue color will lift her spirits.” On the dresser, a sleek floral arrangement from their middle child who now lives in Manhattan. The note reads: “Love you Mom, be up to Syracuse next week for a good long visit.” Judy props herself up and says “read it again.” Andy says “will do” and reads it aloud. “Oh, we should send him a text.” Again, Andy says “will do,” then reaches for his phone. She tells him what to type; her voice is frail. “Be sure to use the letters R, C and U instead of spelling them out; the kids like to do it that way.” He types the message. “The flowers R beautiful. We’re excited about your visit. C U in a week.” He signs it “Love Dad and Mom” and then after some fumbling, manages to insert a heart emoji. Immediately, their son responds with an emoji trio of a smiley face, a happy beating heart and a fist-pump. “I can’t wait to see him,” Judy says wistfully, “to kiss him, to hug him, to tussle his hair.” Andy clears his throat. They both know, one week will be too late. Andy strokes his wife’s forehead. “The years, they went by so fast,” he says in a shaky voice. He pauses. “What a time we had,” he says softly. “Uhhh, yeah,” she says. A delicate smile forms on her exhausted face. He holds on tight to her frail hand and watches helplessly as her life slips away. “She’s gone,” he whispers. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He has no idea of how he can possibly answer the question he’s about to ask himself, but he asks it aloud anyway. “How will I ever live without you?”

~

​Paul Germano and his dog, a sweet Pit Bull mix named April, live in Syracuse, smack dab in the center of New York State. More than 50 of Germano’s stories have been published in online and in-print magazines in the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom and Hong Kong. He is currently working on a short story collection of school-themed stories called *Learn Baby Learn.*

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