getting older/younger/stranger
grama crying to see me, clutching me and talking in a squeaky voice, and I put her washed clothes away and realize she’s missing a shoe. we look under the table next to the bed, want a candy she says when we see the box under there, there’s one left. no shoe there. I love you so much she says, I’m so happy you came, and she sings a little while I clean up and is innocent as a six year old. keeps trying to tell me this sweater needs to go back to some lady who gave it to her and I’m telling her it’s hers, she knit it, I remember. she’s got slight blotches of caked on rouge on her cheeks and mussed hair, and when I tell her it’s time for supper she says what’s that, and where will we go and am I dressed right? we sit in the usual place next to alice, woman with the bluest sparkling eyes who tells my grama she doesn’t have to eat the soup if she doesn’t want to and rolls her eyes at me, while grama stabs at the cream of broccoli scornfully. the choice is shepherds pie or salmon and she keep asking me to eat but I’m but I’m not hungry and calls the palm-sized scoop of mashed potatoes with beef on top too much. coffee’s too hot. juice is good, she says. pecks at it the food. we leave before desert.
she loves it here she says but when we’re in her bathroom washing her face and hands, she want to go home, she wants to go! I am like a grooming monkey mother as I scrub makeup off her face, moisturize, brush her teeth and dentures, (hold your tongue back, chin up!),cut and file fingernails.
she has no sheets on the bed and I only noticed because I pulled back the comforter to sit. I find someone to ask. she had an accident someone tells me and someone was supposed to change her sheets. if I hadn’t asked she would have slept on her mattress pad.
when I walk out, there is the same smoking lady who perches on a bench over her walker and Winstons, spine rounded over, rut-deep wrinkles on her face. She was here when I came in. She is here now and sitting across from her is Mrs. Brown, my girl scout leader. I ran into her a few months ago but she’s doesn’t remember. she lives here now, upstairs in assisted living. looks exactly the same as she did 20 years ago. taught us how to make chocolate cake in cans over the campfire, and if you whined she said, I can’t hear you. brought her chainsaw into the woods to cut up firewood for us, twenty girls camping. she taught piano lessons and delivered beef from her farm to our house in a big bag over her shoulder. had a brood of kids, and exchange students and played avid tennis. here she is, same grey hair knotted on top of her head, talking to smoking lady, and smoking a cigarette herself. poised, nonchalant, and smoking. can’t get this picture out of my head as I glance back over, driving away from there.
grama crying to see me, clutching me and talking in a squeaky voice, and I put her washed clothes away and realize she’s missing a shoe. we look under the table next to the bed, want a candy she says when we see the box under there, there’s one left. no shoe there. I love you so much she says, I’m so happy you came, and she sings a little while I clean up and is innocent as a six year old. keeps trying to tell me this sweater needs to go back to some lady who gave it to her and I’m telling her it’s hers, she knit it, I remember. she’s got slight blotches of caked on rouge on her cheeks and mussed hair, and when I tell her it’s time for supper she says what’s that, and where will we go and am I dressed right? we sit in the usual place next to alice, woman with the bluest sparkling eyes who tells my grama she doesn’t have to eat the soup if she doesn’t want to and rolls her eyes at me, while grama stabs at the cream of broccoli scornfully. the choice is shepherds pie or salmon and she keep asking me to eat but I’m but I’m not hungry and calls the palm-sized scoop of mashed potatoes with beef on top too much. coffee’s too hot. juice is good, she says. pecks at it the food. we leave before desert.
she loves it here she says but when we’re in her bathroom washing her face and hands, she want to go home, she wants to go! I am like a grooming monkey mother as I scrub makeup off her face, moisturize, brush her teeth and dentures, (hold your tongue back, chin up!),cut and file fingernails.
she has no sheets on the bed and I only noticed because I pulled back the comforter to sit. I find someone to ask. she had an accident someone tells me and someone was supposed to change her sheets. if I hadn’t asked she would have slept on her mattress pad.
when I walk out, there is the same smoking lady who perches on a bench over her walker and Winstons, spine rounded over, rut-deep wrinkles on her face. She was here when I came in. She is here now and sitting across from her is Mrs. Brown, my girl scout leader. I ran into her a few months ago but she’s doesn’t remember. she lives here now, upstairs in assisted living. looks exactly the same as she did 20 years ago. taught us how to make chocolate cake in cans over the campfire, and if you whined she said, I can’t hear you. brought her chainsaw into the woods to cut up firewood for us, twenty girls camping. she taught piano lessons and delivered beef from her farm to our house in a big bag over her shoulder. had a brood of kids, and exchange students and played avid tennis. here she is, same grey hair knotted on top of her head, talking to smoking lady, and smoking a cigarette herself. poised, nonchalant, and smoking. can’t get this picture out of my head as I glance back over, driving away from there.
posted by powdermonkey at 8:27 AM
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