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Welcome to Six Minute Stories, where you hear the writing of new voices and experienced writers whose submissions appear in the anthologies of the Personal Story Publishing Project. In our new season, you will hear stories from our 13th collection. Free find links to 6 minute stories and to the Personal Story publishing project@randalljones.com everybody loves a good story. We hope you enjoy this one. Clouds by robin russell geyser.
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I knew it was possible, even likely. My grandma char was turning 102 while Gordon and I would be traveling out west on a long awaited trip to three national parks, Bryce, Zion and the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. Before we departed, we spent a late afternoon at the nursing home with Char, where she had only recently been moved. She was delighted to see us, but as usual, her greeting began with why am I still here? Why can't I die? This mantra was uttered for years and I felt these were reasonable questions. She was the last of her generation of family and friends. This afternoon she also complained of severe pain in her legs and trouble breathing. I remember my father in the same state shortly before he died. I hated seeing her suffer. Will you brush my hair? She asked. You know how to do it? I ever so slightly ran her soft brush through her flyaway thinned white hair, her pink scalp peeking through. Despite my gentleness, I ended up with a small handful of wispy hair. I thought about keeping it. She had exemplified to me what a woman, even of her generation, could accomplish. In her 20s she earned a master's degree from Cornell and then taught at the university level. Many in our large extended family, female and male alike, followed in her footsteps. I took her hand and told her that we were leaving on our trip. Those are beautiful places. Have a great time. She recalled the same trip with my grandfather before he died. The hoodoos in Bryce Canyon were their favorites. Nothing was wrong with her cognitive abilities except some short term memory loss. We hugged, kissed, said goodbye and wished her an early happy birthday. The west intrigued me. The rust pinks golds of the rock formations, the indigenous myths and the bluest sky. Ever. Our geologist and folklorist guides swept away any thoughts about back home during our last stop, the woodsy green north rim of the Grand Canyon. Very unlike the dry desert like South Rim, we enjoyed private accommodations and an original log cabin built by the Union Pacific Railroad in 1928 at 9,000ft elevation. The views and the altitude took my breath away. Early the second morning, a park ranger guided our group through dense evergreen forest where he pointed out wildflowers, animal habitats and bird calls. We had never heard before. On the way back to the lodge for lunch, another ranger joined us and took me aside. We received word that your grandmother passed away last night. She hugged me so sorry. Will you need to fly home? She asked. We can get you to an air no. We enjoyed time with her and said our good byes before we left. This is not unexpected. She turned 102 yesterday. The ranger raised her eyebrows in acknowledgment. Grandma Char would want us to stay. I was touched that other group members learned of her passing and offered hugs and words of condolence. After lunch, I declined the afternoon hike and strolled alone, enjoying the quiet as I followed a narrow trail around the other side of the canyon. I decided to walk off the trail, and I sidestepped down a steep incline. I had to lean my body in the opposite direction of the descent and flat palm the ground for balance. A thick layer of dry pine needles made the going slippery. My breath caught when I could see the canyon bottom. No fence, no guardrails, no ranger. I needed to sit down. Before I sat, I slid a small book out of my trail pants pocket. It had caught my eye in the park bookstore, a book with figures of native people's rock formations. One in particular spoke to me. A semicircle of sticks with a rock in the center, and I scrambled around on my knees, collecting dead branches and a dark, shiny rock, smoothed the spot on the forest floor and created my version of death of the leader of the clan. Then I sat down next to it and placed my hand over the rock. Spoken prayers and blessings flowed naturally. Grandma Char, you were the leader of our clan. Thank you. I love you. That's when I choked up, lowered my head, and let tears fall. Something prompted me to look out over the chasm. A magnificent condor sweeped back and forth through the canyon before me. Then a single wispy white cloud appeared and waft its way past me in an otherwise cloudless blue sky. It was so thin, the sky peeked through. There you are, Grandma Char, I whispered. You finally got your wish. You're free now. Rest in peace. I sat in reverent stillness and watched the cloud pass by. Copyright 2026 Robin Russell Geiser. Clouds may be one of my favorite stories to share, since readers may interpret it in their own way. With two memoirs published Pisgah Press and countless short stories printed in various publications, yet another book sits with my editor publisher at Pisgah Press, awaiting final touches. As a creative, I also find joy in making music and folk art. My husband, Gordon, and I live at 2,100ft along elevation in Asheville, North Carolina.
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Read more about this writer and background on this story in a special feature of six Minute Stories called Author's Talk. Thank you for listening to another six minute story. You can read read them all in the 13 anthologies of the Personal Story Publishing Project. Find the link to our online store@randalljones.com that's R A N D E L L jones.com there you can listen to over 500 stories shared through 13 seasons of our 6 Minute Stories podcast. And remember, everybody loves a good.