since I haven't posted since I guess Bush was in office and "24" was a show, not my age=P
...here ya go, it's a piece for this memior workshop- first time I've really written anything that wasn't poetry,,
The Day I Discovered Grandma’s Third Voice
She comes on Sundays- not every week- but enough to count. She lets herself in the front door, always halfway through the foyer before she calls out.
“Hello?”
“Hi Grandma!”
She follows my voice into the kitchen “Oh hello!” her thin, overly lipsticked orange red mouth turns out a huge smile, and her voice goes up a few notches, it’s pitchy but soft, how I imagine fairy godmother might sound, “Hello, my darling hello!” I embrace her, relieved at the unpleasant buzz of her cheap hearing aid. “Where are your mommy and daddy?”
Usually mom and dad are coming down the stairs before I have craft an answer, there is more hugging, as she makes a bee line for the counter and the inevitable cheese platter that awaits. As she nibbles she asks my dad about work, my mom about her family, her “fairy godmother greeting voice” is long gone, replaced by one and throaty and strained - not like a smoker though- it just sort of crackles with this whiny quality. She has nibbled to her satisfaction and is now tearing at paper napkins into tiny pieces with amazingly thick, long pink nails as she asks me about school.
“It’s going fine” I lie. “I mean, you know, classes are hard.. but yeah, it’s going good.” I ask about the latest book she’s reading or date she’s been on, before she inquires about the French Open or Masterpiece Theatre and I set her up, in front of the T.V. slumped but comfortable, eyes now married to the screen. And so it goes.
This particular Sunday happens to be july 4th, thus my favorite uncle, aunt, and restless teenage cousins are in town. We are all in the backyard; alternating between baking and swimming under the unrelenting sun. I’m sitting at the table, water dripping from my ponytail on to the pages of my Vogue. Hearing the screen door open, I look up to see her heading out: white pants, white shirt with blue and red squares on it, novel and glasses clutched in hand - same as every year. And despite her dependable matching white sneakers, she moves uncomfortably, hutched forward taking heavy steps, her eyes fixed on the closest lawn chair, which thankfully already has a towel draped over to prevent it from feeling like a stovetop. She goes to sit, it’s slow, and labored, her weight baring almost entirely on the arm rests, she winces..
“You okay there mom?” my dad stops on his way to the grill.
“I’m fine- I’m fine” she sighs and sits. She’s parked.
“Still having pain?” I ask, even though the answer is obvious.
“Of course… It’s just so frustrating; I’ve never been like this, never. Did you know that the king of Persia played tennis till he was 90?.. I wanted to play tennis till I was 90”
“Well you got pretty close didn’t you?”-
“I’m only 88” she huffs into the pages of her book.
I smile to myself and turn back to my splotchy magazine. She’s been 88 for the past three years
We sit like this for a while, quiet, joined at one point by my aunt and a bag of chips. Grandma doesn’t look up from her book. I show my aunt some killer shoes. She leaves, the chips stay.
It occurs to me as shade now covers half the pool I could leave, go on inside, she probably wouldn’t even notice. But I don’t, I stay, absentmindedly munching and daydreaming away the remaining heat.
I’m brought back into the moment by a distinct yet completely unfamiliar voice that commands me to “put it down”
With that I see that my patio companion has finally looked up, and she’s looking at me. No, staring, her stark blue green eyes shifting between my hand in the chip bag and my no doubt confused expression. She must be kidding. I chuckle uncomfortably, and pick a chip out of the bag.
“that’s enough.” Suddenly Her voice is like steel; cold, piercing and even keel no crackle. Not a hint of whine. “ you’ve had enough, no more ”.
I put the damn chip back. She turns back to her book. I sink into to my seat and then in the same breath sit up straight again and tug at my bathing suit. Top. Bottom. Top. Bottom. Adjusting feverishly- Till I find myself back in the pool, blowing great, big, hostility filled bubbles, sinking down. Pop up, do a few aggressive strokes across the pool, more hostile bubbles, and move to get out. I can feel her watching me. I watch the reflection of my thumb in the railing, the cracks in the concrete, the creepy black bug that has just landed on my towel. This is exhausting. I glance over at her, however briefly.
“you have such pretty skin” she says
And just like that, the crackle is back.
The Day I Discovered Grandma’s Third Voice
She comes on Sundays- not every week- but enough to count. She lets herself in the front door, always halfway through the foyer before she calls out.
“Hello?”
“Hi Grandma!”
She follows my voice into the kitchen “Oh hello!” her thin, overly lipsticked orange red mouth turns out a huge smile, and her voice goes up a few notches, it’s pitchy but soft, how I imagine fairy godmother might sound, “Hello, my darling hello!” I embrace her, relieved at the unpleasant buzz of her cheap hearing aid. “Where are your mommy and daddy?”
Usually mom and dad are coming down the stairs before I have craft an answer, there is more hugging, as she makes a bee line for the counter and the inevitable cheese platter that awaits. As she nibbles she asks my dad about work, my mom about her family, her “fairy godmother greeting voice” is long gone, replaced by one and throaty and strained - not like a smoker though- it just sort of crackles with this whiny quality. She has nibbled to her satisfaction and is now tearing at paper napkins into tiny pieces with amazingly thick, long pink nails as she asks me about school.
“It’s going fine” I lie. “I mean, you know, classes are hard.. but yeah, it’s going good.” I ask about the latest book she’s reading or date she’s been on, before she inquires about the French Open or Masterpiece Theatre and I set her up, in front of the T.V. slumped but comfortable, eyes now married to the screen. And so it goes.
This particular Sunday happens to be july 4th, thus my favorite uncle, aunt, and restless teenage cousins are in town. We are all in the backyard; alternating between baking and swimming under the unrelenting sun. I’m sitting at the table, water dripping from my ponytail on to the pages of my Vogue. Hearing the screen door open, I look up to see her heading out: white pants, white shirt with blue and red squares on it, novel and glasses clutched in hand - same as every year. And despite her dependable matching white sneakers, she moves uncomfortably, hutched forward taking heavy steps, her eyes fixed on the closest lawn chair, which thankfully already has a towel draped over to prevent it from feeling like a stovetop. She goes to sit, it’s slow, and labored, her weight baring almost entirely on the arm rests, she winces..
“You okay there mom?” my dad stops on his way to the grill.
“I’m fine- I’m fine” she sighs and sits. She’s parked.
“Still having pain?” I ask, even though the answer is obvious.
“Of course… It’s just so frustrating; I’ve never been like this, never. Did you know that the king of Persia played tennis till he was 90?.. I wanted to play tennis till I was 90”
“Well you got pretty close didn’t you?”-
“I’m only 88” she huffs into the pages of her book.
I smile to myself and turn back to my splotchy magazine. She’s been 88 for the past three years
We sit like this for a while, quiet, joined at one point by my aunt and a bag of chips. Grandma doesn’t look up from her book. I show my aunt some killer shoes. She leaves, the chips stay.
It occurs to me as shade now covers half the pool I could leave, go on inside, she probably wouldn’t even notice. But I don’t, I stay, absentmindedly munching and daydreaming away the remaining heat.
I’m brought back into the moment by a distinct yet completely unfamiliar voice that commands me to “put it down”
With that I see that my patio companion has finally looked up, and she’s looking at me. No, staring, her stark blue green eyes shifting between my hand in the chip bag and my no doubt confused expression. She must be kidding. I chuckle uncomfortably, and pick a chip out of the bag.
“that’s enough.” Suddenly Her voice is like steel; cold, piercing and even keel no crackle. Not a hint of whine. “ you’ve had enough, no more ”.
I put the damn chip back. She turns back to her book. I sink into to my seat and then in the same breath sit up straight again and tug at my bathing suit. Top. Bottom. Top. Bottom. Adjusting feverishly- Till I find myself back in the pool, blowing great, big, hostility filled bubbles, sinking down. Pop up, do a few aggressive strokes across the pool, more hostile bubbles, and move to get out. I can feel her watching me. I watch the reflection of my thumb in the railing, the cracks in the concrete, the creepy black bug that has just landed on my towel. This is exhausting. I glance over at her, however briefly.
“you have such pretty skin” she says
And just like that, the crackle is back.