The Fly
By: J. George Tatum
I was seven years old at the time of my grandfather’s encounter with the fly. It was summertime in North Carolina and we were sitting on the front porch stewing in a heavy, windless heat. He was wearing the same clothes he always wore: beige shorts and a white button up. Sweat was just starting to bleed through the sides of his shirt – mine was already soaked through. “We’re Greek,” he used to tell me, “sweat is in our blood.” I liked being sweaty. I liked being Greek. I especially liked that my grandfather and I were both named George. But most of all, I adored sitting on the porch with my grandfather, or as I called him in the Greek, “Papou”.
That afternoon, Papou was eating a plate of leftover lasagna. It was an uneventful meal, until a fly appeared and began making increasingly determined attempts to partake in my grandfather’s food. A half-hearted exchange of swats and fly-by’s ensued, until it was clear that Papou had had enough. I expected him to take his plate inside, or get a flyswatter, but he didn’t. Instead, he picked up a napkin, folded it carefully in half, ripped it down the middle, and gently set it on the table next to his plate. Then he took a small forkful of lasagna and shook it off onto the napkin.
“What are you doing, Papou?” I asked.
“Giving the fly his own plate so he leaves mine alone.” He replied.
“Oh,” I said.
The End