Bopa.

"No, no, you stop that", he said as he pulled his grandson's finger out of his nose.
"Polite gentlemen don't do things of that nature."
'Sowwy Bopa.'

As he stood up from scolding his three year old grandson, Gus felt strange. Not a bad strange, but just not normal. He ran his hand through his thinning hairs as he thought about it.

The strange feeling continued as he wandered into the kitchen. Resting his elbows on the counter, he bent over the sink and washed his hands in preparation of making dinner. Ever since Dee passed he had to cook alone. A task that wasn't always very pleasant. Especially now since his son's family was coming.

Ahh, speak of the devil he thought, as he heard footsteps on the porch. As old as he was, Gus could still hear a pin drop.

"Hey Dad" his son yelled as he shut the front door.
Gus grunted a hello.
"In the kitchen", Gus said.

Gus grabbed a cutting board and a tomato from the counter and began slicing it in slow, steady strokes.
He felt a tap on the back of the leg.
"Bopa, look." , his grandson said, and handed him a paper with crayon markings.
"Hm. What...is it exactly?"
"Shell, Bopa. Beach."

And at that exact moment, Gus figured out why he was feeling so strange. He wasnt getting air. He couldn't get air. Don't panic. Don't panic. Put down the knife. There's red everywhere. Is that tomato? Oh Jesus its blood where did it come from? I can't feel my hand.

Those thoughts went through his mind in a millisecond before Gus was on the hardwood floor, being attacked by his own heart.

His three year old grandson stood there, silent, paralyzed with fear.

Before he he faded into darkness, Gus saw the stunned look in his grandson's eyes and remembered:

"Shell, Bopa. Beach."