A little spec of cosmic dust (Pt.1)

Left Difficulty B, Right Difficulty A

My grandfather’s last breath — or, more precisely, his last attempt to catch his breath — was expired in a most ironic way. In fact, until then I hadn’t been able to grasp the concept of irony quite right.

One moment, his hands were meeting each other in joyful, warm applause, to the beat of Happy Bir-thday Dear Chri-is. The next, they were desperately reaching for the pacemaker in his heart. I remember looking up from the candles and unto his twitching fingers. I opened my mouth in puzzled awe: I had never seen such tension in anyone’s muscles — not even in my classmate Joshua’s neck during abs in gym class. And all of a sudden, whatever force was tightly holding him together let go and my grandpa’s face slumped right onto the cake.

Numb mind, utterly flabbergasted, I couldn’t think of what to do. Neither could the guests, who were frozen in place. One last and lost clap echoed through my living room and I just blew the eleven candles. I remember the background sound of Mother’s record of Irene Dunne’s Smoke Gets In Your Eyes enhancing the cruelty of the moment with manifest absurdity. The smoke from the candles was, indeed, getting in grandpa’s eyes.