Old

The child screams murder and wants for nothing. The old man puffs his pipe. A cheap enough blend but his teeth fit the nib. A tweed suit for the ages and a pocket watch that is always two minutes away from reality.

A toy falls behind the the sofa and yellows do not become blues for nothing. A fit to raise demons. Tears from hell and gods whimper. A pelted carpet and fists send pets fleeing. 

Smoke hits the ceiling and he relaxes. Seen it all before. Tantrums and wasted heart-beats. This kid is eight. School teachers and discipline. It won’t help him.

A black cat returns to the lap. Wide-eyed and cautious, he retains his royalty. The small ones are noisy. No time for that. The old man plumps a thumb into the burning ash and sighs.

Where does the energy come from? The toy has been forgotten and an army of ants are of interest. Into the garden with a lighter and a desire for death. The old man exhales. The cat drops like a load and huffs.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to squash them and burn them.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Come on, Grandpa. They’re just ants. It’s fun.”

“Kick a ball. I’ll be the goalkeeper. You can score for Scotland.”

“Nah. I’m going to kill them. Look. They’re everywhere.”

“Listen, do you know how important ants are?”

“They’re tiny. Stomp them.”

“Do you see the plants over there? Ants aerate the soil. They nurture the roots. A sociable bunch, they look after one another and work like soldiers. If you crush one, a distress signal calls and it only attracts more. They may be smaller than you but they are clever. Have some respect.”

“Fat bums. I’m going magnify glass them in the sun.”

“It’s raining.”

“I’m telling grandma. She has ice-cream.”

The old man sets himself down. Eighty-four years on this earth. Years are for learning but you cannot teach the unteachable.

Ants.