Broken Sieve

"His oil is dirty," the boy's dad said, speaking about his own father. "See that," he said as they lay beneath the car. His hand pointing to the small filter. "His filter doesn't work, and it hasn't worked for  a long time."
"Can't we buy him a new filter daddy?" the little boy asked.
He was only seven and didn't understand what was wrong.
"No," the father said. With a sad look in his eyes, his face dropped slowly into a frown. "His filter is a rare one, not many people have it, and we can only take his filter from other vehicles."
"Can't we use this one," the little boy said, pointing at the object his dad had showed him.
"No, Daddy doesn't have the same filter." He was sad, knowing his son could possibly never seen his grandfather again. He didn't want to scare the little boy, he didn't want him to face death.
"What about mommy's car, can we use that one?" His face seemed eager, he wanted to fix what couldn't be done.
"No." The father's answers started to become monotonous. "He's getting help from another machine, to clean his oil. He will need his oil changed a lot."
"Like the car?" the boy smiled, oblivious to the seriousness of the situation.
"Yes, like the car. They'll take out all the bad stuff, and put a bunch of new stuff in, and then he'll be healthy until he needs another one."
"When will that be?"
So many questions, and not enough answers. The father was growing weary, he wish he could just lie down. "Everyday, maybe more, maybe less. Depends if they can fix his filter, until they can find him a new one."
The boy slid out from under the care. "I'll start making a new one, and then I'll take it to Grandpa's farm," and with that he ran inside.
The father sat pondering, about classic cars, like the one above him, and how his father used to take him for rides in the new models. His dad has been a salesmen, and he liked to test each one out. This car had been his fathers.

It was only later that afternoon when his wife ushered him inside, and when she told him to sit down before giving him the phone, he knew the conversation before he even engaged in it. His fathers kidneys failed, and his heart and other organs just couldn't maintain his body. He was sick, and wouldn't last through the night.
He put on his coat and as he reached the door, his son came bouncing around the corner.
"If you're going to see Grandpa, you should take this to him for me," the boy handed him a drawing. It was lines and scribbles in no particular pattern, yet the little boy was proud. "Maybe that will fix Grandpa."
The father hugged him tight, "I'll make sure he gets it."
"Thanks Dad, I'll make an extra one," he said.


The father stared at the picture on the drive to the hospital, and while he  walked through the barren halls. When he approached the ICU, his brother ushered him between to curtains. The man barely resembled his father at all. The colour was gone from his skin and machines were making whooshing noises between all the clicks and beeps. A tear might have escaped his lips as he laid the boys picture on the stand beside his bed.
"Jason brought you a new filter," he whispered into his fathers ear, even though he couldn't hear. "I hope it helps."