What's Older than the Sprinkles?

[I'm sure this is entirely too late, but here it is. I found myself avoiding the task of telling the oldest story in the world by telling its telling. However, to some extent, that's the only way I can envision the oldest story in the world: a story old enough to persist through time in theory, but not in actuality. It is a story that has been told and retold and re-retold so many times that it is no longer a story, but a want of a story. Also, children are awesome, so naturally it had to be a child who wanted the story.]

What's Older than the Sprinkles?

In the smallest room of a house with no stairs, a girl asked her grandfather for another story. The grandfather said no with his voice, but yes with a smile so big the girl saw the gap where he was missing a tooth. The girl asked again and the grandfather did not refuse. He asked her how long of a story she wanted to hear and would she like to hear a new one? She said no, an old one. The grandfather asked how old: as old as him? The girl smiled and said no and pointed out the room’s one window to the square of velvety sky. Older than the sprinkles, she said, which were the stars. The grandfather raised both eyebrows, not because he didn’t know what the sprinkles were, because he did, but because he knew how old the sprinkles were. He told the girl that the only person who could tell her a story like that would be her grandmother, because Grammy has a better memory than me, dear.

“Can I go ask her?”

“No. You’re already in bed.”

“But my eyes aren’t even heavy yet.”

“If you lie down, they will be.”

“GRAM–”

“HUSH!” The grandfather clapped his palm over the girl’s mouth. The desk lamp illuminated his arm in the space between them. “Grammy needs her sleep these days.”

He removed his hand from her face and saw her eyes become filmy and moist.

“Gracey?” Grammy’s voice floated into the small room like fumes. “What’s wrong?”

Both Gracey and the grandfather could hear the rustling of her electric blanket, the creaking of the wrought iron bed, and perhaps the two thud-taps of her feet hitting the floor. The grandfather scooped Gracey out of bed and carried her to the neighboring room, where Grammy sat upright facing the window. She was tying a scarf around her head as a cloud cluster moved past, obscuring the velvety sky into dull cotton.

The grandmother asked what was going on, and the grandfather said nothing, and the girl asked for a story. An old story, she said, a really really old story, older than the sprinkles. The grandmother smiled, though the girl couldn’t see it. The grandfather lay the girl on the bed beside the grandmother and sat in the chair in the corner. The grandmother told the girl yes, and would she be interested in hearing the oldest story in the world? The girl bounced on the bed and smiled, saying yes with her whole being. The grandmother told the girl that she was not the first to ask for this type of story, and that there is in fact a story about the oldest story, and did you know that you can’t actually tell the oldest story without telling the story about the story? The girl was confused.

“Please tell me?” said Gracey. Grammy nodded and began.

The grandfather circled his thumbs around each other and watched the silhouette of the grandmother and the girl, enveloped by the velvet, but brightened every now and then by the sprinkles.