Grandma

Braiding the fringe of the bed's throw, I squeezed between my sister and brother, as Grandma told us that story of catching the paddleboat waves with her canoe. Her salty (read, inappropriate) language always made us giggle, and I breathed in the sharpness of her arthritis ointment as my chin chittered against my chest. Inching closer to her, because I happened to like the smell of Ben Gay. And the way she slung her hand behind her head, revealing that pale, papery skin on the underside of her arm. Even the reflux spasm in her throat—like a constant clicking—became the soothing background noise of those lazy, summer mornings.

Yes, we have to love our grandparents. But how I liked her, too.

Grandma was a fierce protector of those she loved, and fearless in general. When a restaurant didn’t hire my sister as a waitress, she refused to ever eat there again. We made fun of her for it. But she was dead serious. I was once harassed by a mime (yes, a mime) at an amusement park, and she gave the guy such a verbal smackdown that I don’t think he could have talked, even if he’d been willing to break his code of silence.

Sometimes, her intrepidness embarrassed me. As a girl, I’d hide inside a clothes rack in the department store as she argued with the salesperson about an expired discount, or some such thing. Humming slightly, to drown out the agony of such brazenness.

But mostly, I just thought of how much fun it would be to be like her. Bouncing and screaming with her twin behind that boat, as its paddle slapped at the Ohio River. Graduating from college after having her only child, my mom. Celebrating Christmases with my grandfather in Mexico City. . . why not? Feliz Navidad!

She died in 2002. At 91.

And slowly, we forget these details. So many meticulous brushstrokes fade into dull impressions, some warped by the bitter shades of old-age afflictions. And so we point to loved ones’ photographs in albums, telling our kids, That was your great-grandma. She would have loved you so. They look on, only slightly curious, at this stranger frozen in time. And then, because we cannot explain a person’s life in so few words, with so little time, we flip the page. The lump in our throat all packed away.

But last night, those precious details returned. I felt the slickness of her palm pressed to my own. That familiar hand, all veins and joints. We walked together under a starry, museum sky, and she told me that she loved me. Or I told her. I can’t quite remember, but the word love stamped itself inside my head. And was bursting from me when I awoke.

So today, that lump in the throat has free reign. Not because I lost her again. For even while dreaming, there was the awareness that our time was fleeting. But because I received the bittersweet gift of knowing her again.

And this chance to keep her alive a little bit longer.

--

Dedicated to Elinor Luttrell: Grandma, anti-mimeite and wave rider.


I am myne owene woman, wel at ease

--Geoffrey Chaucer

The Impossible Dream

Its shadows reflect the absence of water.

The last time they took it out was…what?

1988.

July.


He’d taken her fishing on her birthday. She had resisted long enough. Grandpa stocked his pond with trout, some carp. One could baptize them, their numbers were so few.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she baited the hook. And still heard the worm scream behind her eyes.

Not much was said.

Your jump shot is coming along.

Jen never passes me the ball.

It will come. Just keep plugging away.

Once, their silk lines tangled like a morning spider web. The accidental contact embarrassed her, and she fiddled with the reel.

Her pretending not to notice the skin cancer on his ear.

His eyes avoiding new breasts, arrived at that year.

Their boat a tiny island. Unshared.

Swollen with the insects’ persistent plea, she almost confessed that she didn’t care about jump shots. Basketball.

Stupid sports.

But no.

They floated in a blue haze, until she snagged a decent trout. He helped her bring it in, anticipation stretching the old rope of his muscles.

But that surprised mouth, and dumb stare. Instinct unleashed a squeal, as she tossed the slippery thing into the air.

The splash of adrenaline hooking her giddy side. The imagination.

Look at the little sucker go! Let’s call him Don Quixote, Grandpa—

But his gaze sagged to the empty cooler by his feet.

Dragging the boat onto land, and flipping it over, she understood the outing to be a failure. She had hurt him, because of herself.

He climbed the hill with some effort. With her tennis shoes squelched in the muddy bank, she watched him go.

Tears leaked from her eyes.

She called them allergies. All that white pine.



There is a distance that’s longer than years.

But she climbs into the two-seater, anyway.

The fish are still there.

Old Barn

There was to be company for supper, and Mama needed her to mind the baby.

Ruth hitched Samuel to her hip, and scooped a bucket to fetch water from the neighbor’s well. With the drought this summer, theirs was mud and stone. When Mama was all hot and bothered, and muttering to her Lord, it was best to move like lightning.

“Mercy, Sammy. You smell like an outhouse.”

He slobbered over a toothless grin, while the chickens scattered at her stride.

Ruth scrunched her nose at the foulness staining her apron, but didn’t stop. All of his diapers—and two-year-old Peter’s—were drying on the line. Everything had fallen one step behind since Mama started taking in sewing work, on account of Father losing his job as a—

As a—

Well, no one ever bothered to properly explain what it was he did.

But whatever it had been, he had come home dark as thunderclouds. In want of that sharp sludge in the jugs Mama took to kicking from time to time.

Ruth tripped down the rutted road, humming “When Irish Eyes are Smiling” for Sammy. Mama didn’t approve of the Irish on account of their being the Whores of Babble-on, but Father sang the tune on those evenings when his cheeks were flush and his heart wide. Mama seemed to forget God altogether then.

Passing by the pasture gate, Ruth paused. It was open again.

“Houdini!” she hissed, spotting the black mare in the road ahead. “You naughty—”

She started toward her favorite horse, when she heard the sound. Something low, and snuffling. Something to strangle her song.

Her eyes twisted toward the old barn. A cold wind clutched her neck, though the day was fine.

“Hush, Sammy,” she said, though the boy was strangely docile.

Ruth approached the barn, swinging her bucket. Still wanting to believe in that blue, blue sky.

Through a gap in the grey siding, she saw her father, sitting on a stool. An empty jug lay on its side.

Tears streamed down his cheeks.

His lips smiled hugely about Grandpa’s Burnside carbine rifle.

Hands choked the muzzle.

Toe on the trigger.

She dropped her bucket, and shielded Sammy’s head against a thin shoulder.

Her father’s wild eyes turned, and bulged. The toe slipped.

“Get outta here, Ruthie,” he sobbed, spitting out the cold iron. Rising, he listed to the side.

She stared at the dark weapon in his hand.

“Din’t you hear, girl?" he slurred, charging toward her, spittle spraying. "I said, get.”

She got.

Even remembering to close the pasture gate behind her.

And when she heard that rifle fire, something like Mama’s Holy Ghost passed through her small body, when she saw that big, sweet horse drop to its side.