I could hear her ambling up to the table where I sat in the kitchen, completely engrossed in what would become my favorite book. The shift of light from the afternoon window was barely discernible, but it knew how to make room for her.
"Whatcha readin' there, squirt?" She was on one of her strolls around the house, keeping checks on everyone in our four bedroom space. I never figured out if this ritual was to gain a few steps of exercise or because she was too quiet and she knew it.
"East of Eden." I selfishly did not look up from my book. I didn't want to explain anything else.
I felt her hand rest on my shoulder. I tore my gaze away and looked up at my favorite features - a mole on a wobbly nose, watery hazel eyes, and enough wrinkles to make your bed in. I softened. "Sit down, Grammy. You have to hear this."
I don't remember what passage I read her. I've looked at that book a hundred times to find it. All I know was that she sat there next to me in her Grandma way and soaked it all in. She closed her eyes as if to block out any nuisance that would cause her to lose focus on my every word. And in true Grandma fashion, when I was finished, she exhaled a lifetime of breath and gently asked me to continue.
And so I did. I told her about Adam Trask and his children. I told her all about Salinas Valley. I don't even know if she really liked it. All of a sudden I was eight again, but this time we weren't reading about Sarny in Nightjohn. We read then because Grammy "couldn't see the pages," though deep down I knew it was a ploy to get me to read out loud. This time, Grammy really couldn't see the pages, but she saw them bloom in her mind in a way I plan to ask her about one day.
I couldn't have known then that this was the last book I would read to her; it was the beginning of a multitude of lasts. Last summer. Last time at home. Last time I'd see her close her eyes and see like that.
Thank God Steinbeck is talented and eloquent. Even if that book was absolute trash, it would still be my favorite.
10 October 2012
the day I die
eyes closed,
breathe out.
silence.
open eyes;
open them to my grandma's hair,
the hair she had when she was young,
dark, thick,
coarse.
she will pull back from
the warmest hug
her hands on my shoulders,
and I will see the mole on her nose
and rub my finger across it,
unthinkingly.
She will laugh,
the low tingling resonates in my ears,
and we will begin to walk.
her hand will fall into mine,
naturally,
as we float through a bright place.
green grass,
white daisies,
and a smell that will remind me of
rose lotion,
but only after I think about it.
She will wear a white dress,
like the ones in the old pictures,
with the brightest,
smartest shoes.
(those were her favorite)
We will talk of nothing consequential,
but I will always remember
that my first moments in Paradise
were spent with my grandmother,
in laughter,
hand in hand.
breathe out.
silence.
open eyes;
open them to my grandma's hair,
the hair she had when she was young,
dark, thick,
coarse.
she will pull back from
the warmest hug
her hands on my shoulders,
and I will see the mole on her nose
and rub my finger across it,
unthinkingly.
She will laugh,
the low tingling resonates in my ears,
and we will begin to walk.
her hand will fall into mine,
naturally,
as we float through a bright place.
green grass,
white daisies,
and a smell that will remind me of
rose lotion,
but only after I think about it.
She will wear a white dress,
like the ones in the old pictures,
with the brightest,
smartest shoes.
(those were her favorite)
We will talk of nothing consequential,
but I will always remember
that my first moments in Paradise
were spent with my grandmother,
in laughter,
hand in hand.
stoplights
The other night, I woke up from a dream expecting to be in my grandma's bed as if it had been any other night that I stayed over there. I was confused to not find the glow-in-the-dark stoplight hanging from the fan switch suspended over the bed, just as much as I was confused that the light filtering in from my bedroom window had a yellow shade instead of a blue one.
I don't know how our minds can trick us into believing we are somewhere we are not. It wasn't even a dream of consequence; I didn't remember some conversation I had with Grammy that I had forgotten, that wasn't conjured for me so that I could see some detail I had not remembered before.
What's beautiful is that my mind was diligent in capturing every piece of information from those moments. I half expected to wake up and hear Grammy's inhuman snore paired by the pause and quick release of air. I thought I could almost see the stoplight shining above me (which is a fact I've never thought of as absurd until now--why would you use a glow-in-the-dark stop light, of all things?). I believed myself to be weighed down by too many blankets, I was aware of that old gold clock that spun its seconds around itself, and believed I smelled the almost imperceptible and yet unmistakable hint of rose from Grammy's bedtime lotion. I felt that if I reached under the desk to my right, I would find the volumes of albums of old pictures that I could pour into four hours. I felt I knew that on top of the dresser in the corner of the room was the plastic chest that held old jewelry and a lock of my great-grandmother's hair, and I knew Grammy would tear up as she ran her fingers across its red ribbon. In current time, I awoke comforted, even though I was alone and fifteen years senior of that little girl.
I am convinced my mind does it on purpose--it takes me back to that time when I least expect it, almost to say, "See? She's still there, but it's different now." And as to whatever that means or why it happens, I'll take it any way I can, and that is what I'm thankful for on this November night.
I don't know how our minds can trick us into believing we are somewhere we are not. It wasn't even a dream of consequence; I didn't remember some conversation I had with Grammy that I had forgotten, that wasn't conjured for me so that I could see some detail I had not remembered before.
What's beautiful is that my mind was diligent in capturing every piece of information from those moments. I half expected to wake up and hear Grammy's inhuman snore paired by the pause and quick release of air. I thought I could almost see the stoplight shining above me (which is a fact I've never thought of as absurd until now--why would you use a glow-in-the-dark stop light, of all things?). I believed myself to be weighed down by too many blankets, I was aware of that old gold clock that spun its seconds around itself, and believed I smelled the almost imperceptible and yet unmistakable hint of rose from Grammy's bedtime lotion. I felt that if I reached under the desk to my right, I would find the volumes of albums of old pictures that I could pour into four hours. I felt I knew that on top of the dresser in the corner of the room was the plastic chest that held old jewelry and a lock of my great-grandmother's hair, and I knew Grammy would tear up as she ran her fingers across its red ribbon. In current time, I awoke comforted, even though I was alone and fifteen years senior of that little girl.
I am convinced my mind does it on purpose--it takes me back to that time when I least expect it, almost to say, "See? She's still there, but it's different now." And as to whatever that means or why it happens, I'll take it any way I can, and that is what I'm thankful for on this November night.
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