Pablum

A drabble. I think I finally have a beginning for the invisible-motorcycle story that has been bumping around my head for at least two years now, but I don't have a middle or an ending. We'll see if I can turn that into anything readable in the near future. Probably not.

Pablum: Something that is trite, insipid, or simplistic.

In other words, you should be very surprised that this is not about DNA. Or a collection of the responses I get when I say "I'm a geneticist."

There’s something that legitimizes dying wishes; your own rosy-tinted memory makes you comply, even if the request is absurd. I think my grandfather knew that, and that’s why he whispered, on his death bed, “Avenge me.”

It calls up all sorts of fairy tales, doesn’t it? Kill the evil baron who poisoned my grandfather’s wine, right countless yet-unknown wrongs, back in time for supper.

But things are never that simple. My grandfather died of a stroke. High cholesterol and higher blood pressure did him in: genetics and a lifetime of smoking, drinking, and eating red meat. Whose fault is that?