Writer in the Forest

Chapter 11

On holidays, my nearly deaf Grandma would slowly sneak through the little house to the kitchen for a little nip, unaware her grandkids – the entity known as mike-uh-billy-uh-freddy-uh-susie-uh-vickie-uh-dede – were hiding behind her and laughing at her serious expression as she threw back a few snorts.

But when Grandma’s speech was slurred, it had nothing to do with vodka. Small strokes. Mom and I visited Grandma in the nursing home often. Mom felt guilty and would tell me she knew she couldn’t take care of Grandma at the house. Together we’d take her popcorn balls and Twinkies. Sometimes I’d walk the four blocks to the decrepit nursing home by myself and chat with Grandma about the olden days.

In 1978 Grandma lay dying at the ripe old age of ninety-four, her watery eyes on the wall but staring inwardly at something we couldn’t see. She’d lived her long life and was probably reliving it. I said goodbye to her silver curls and her hands, identical to mine. She couldn’t lift her head, hadn’t been able to walk, wouldn’t know my name right now. The old girl had a lot of moss on her. And I loved her.

Mom and I watched over Grandma for hours. We didn’t say much, just stayed close. We eventually went home, feeling helpless.

At sunrise, the phone rang. I buried my face in my pillow, crying for the Grandma I would never see again.

I wondered how Mom could live without her mother, but she never cracked, never shed a tear because Grandma was in a better place.

I just kept it to myself that I wasn’t sure my Grandma was anyplace anymore.