'How much do you think I'll get for him?' she nodded towards the frail and sickly man sleeping noiselessly in the room beyond the window. 'Who? Grandpa? I'd say not much more than a chicken. There's hardly any meat left on those bones. And look at the state of him. His illness won't fetch you a good price.' 'I suppose you're right.' She went inside the room and gestured for him to follow. 'Suppose just a Sunday roast, then.' He closed the door behind them, saying, 'I don't see why you're fussing about all that right now. The man's still alive.' She scoffed. 'Barely.' She tucked the covers over the sleeping man more securely. 'He won't last the end of the week.' She leaned over and brushed away the thin and frayed hairs from his face and cleared the drool on his chin with a tissue.
Her expression softened as tended to him. 'I would give anything to hear him yell at me about how "these liberals" were planning on handing the country to the terrorists." Her brother responded with a weak chuckle, 'He had a new conspiracy theory every week. He was a right maniac.' For a moment they were both silent, letting the bouts of nostalgia wash over themselves. No one spoke and time stood still.
A cough from the bed broke the silent vigil they were keeping of its occupant. He wheezed loudly and raggedly for a good few minutes before the coughing fit subsided. This was all they had been hearing from him these last few weeks. She had noticed how these coughs had only gotten worse with every successive instance. This one, in particular, just reinforced what she had been dreading all along. With a sigh, she turned on her heel, bid adieu to her brother and exited the room.
On her way out, she could be seen looking up the local butchers and their services on her phone. Her grandfather's death was imminent and preparations had to be made. She knew if she waited until the last minute, she would be conned into paying more than necessary. Worse yet, if, when the time came and no one was available, she would have to buy land and a coffin to bury him in and she knew nothing would dishonour his memory more than frivolous wastage of money.
Or meat, for that matter.
No Space To Waste
