There is no subject so old that something new cannot be said about it:
i've decided to post something i started to write today. its very small and rough but i have the feeling it can be something big. with all the teaching i've been doing, i haven't been writing as much. but i want to start sharing more, stop being such a baby and going to readings and letting others into what i'm working on. so read if you want, don't if you don't. either way.
I walked into the house, shutting the door behind me, the floor creaking under the thin worn carpet.
“Grandpa?” I called, stepping into the kitchen where my Grandmother had left the dishwasher running before she left for the hairdresser’s, where she went every Saturday, the water swishing, dishes clanking. I paused to look out the window over the sink, out over the yard and the barbed wire fence lined grazing pasture dotted with black angus cows, hill creeping down the gravel lane to meet the newly paved county road. My Grandparent’s house always smelled dusty from the shelves my Grandmother couldn’t reach anymore in her cleaning, the dirt tracked in on boots from the fields my Grandfather couldn’t work anymore. “Grandpa? Where are you at?” I called again, crossing the dining room with golden yellow shag carpet my Grandma thought fitting when they remodeled the farmhouse in the 70s, her china cabinet with glass doors and brass knobs filled with her bell collection- little porcelain bells from all over the world, Germany, England, Mexico, Canada, everywhere her or her children or their children had traveled.
I stepped into the doorway of their bedroom and found my Grandpa standing before the closet lined with mirrors, his feet bare, in a suit coat and matching pants of grey, a red and gold striped tie tightened under his liverspotted sagging neck. He stared at his reflection and his eyes looked wet. A pile of clothes lay on the floor beside him. The curtains were drawn and the cloudy overcast afternoon light struggled to get in through the lace and venetian blinds- the room bathed in blue grey.
“What are you doing?” I asked. His head snapped over to me, he jumped back a little- he hadn’t heard me come in.
“Becky,” he said, his voice faint, turning back slowly to look at himself, his hands falling into his suit coat pocket, trying to straighten himself out. His grey hair was only a thin crown around the sides of his head, the top shiny from rubbing it with oil, always so vain, but covered in scabs and bumps he nervously picked at especially when cornered and trying to remember something, digging to try to reach inside and pull it out. I stepped into the bedroom- never changed in all my years. Frilly bedskirt, blue quilted throw, dresses and suits hung in plastic bags in the closet. The picture of their children on the dresser- Bobby, my Dad, Vicki, Cheryl, and Christy, now dead, smiling on a haystack when they were children in the barn across the road, a beam of light coming down on their faces.
“Are you okay?” I asked, placing my hand on his shoulder. He pulled his hands out and began unbuttoning his suit coat, letting the three buttons pop open.
“Well, may as well get rid of em, all of em,” he said, his voice crackly from being quiet so long, sliding off the coat to toss it in a pile with all the others. I wondered how long he had been at this- all his Sunday suits, the ones he wore over and over again, graduations and weddings, so proud, smelling like Old Spice and moth balls.
“What do you mean?” I asked, finally feeling how his mind was slipping.
“Throw em away because its over, its all goddamn over I say,” he said, slumping to sit on the edge of the bed, his bottom lip quivering. I’d never seen him like this.
My Grandfather the workhorse. When I thought of him I always first saw his hands- cracks stained with oil on his calloused palms, nails of dirt and grime. He always worse overalls with homesewn patches in the places they had ripped while throwing haybales on the back of the trailer with his stitched chestnut leather boots on his feet stamped with mud and fresh manure from his relentless rounds of hoghouse and field. He drove his yellow pick up truck up and down the lane all through the day, stirring up gravel dust as he rode past all that he had made or built upon from his father and his father and his father before that and on and on and on and after him too- his son, my Dad, my Dad who had failed the line and bore three girls instead of a single farmer.
“Don’t say that, its going to be okay,” I said, knowing I was lying. He started shaking his head violently back and forth, looking up at me. I knew he wasn’t okay. He knew it too- these episodes were happening more and more often.
I remembered sitting on his lap at the kitchen table as he helped guide my hand as it clutched in tiny knuckles and fingers the silver knife, spreading yellow sweet cream butter over Wonderbread for lunch. How he showed me how he liked to eat watermelon, with a generous shake of salt and pepper. How he helped me saddle my horse so I could move cows from the worn down grazing field to the next one over that had gotten some time to grow itchy grasses as tall as my waist.
“I can’t remember, I can’t remember,” he was saying, and I saw how old he was, the man I knew shrinking away. He is almost gone, I thought. How much longer will he hold on? I cursed myself for wishing he would just let go, just die. Walter Earl, was dying, his mind at least. His shell would remain once his consciousness finally evaporated as his memories sank away more and more into the past.
“What can’t you remember?” I asked, kneeling down in front of him, looking up at him, a hand on his knee, trying to keep his focus, to help him think with my steady gaze meeting his.
“I wore this suit, I bought it for something, I can’t remember. Your grandmother would know,” he said, looking around and behind him desperately, like a lost child, hoping to find her there. I could see on his face that he forgotten where she had gone but he didn’t want to ask because he knew he should remember but couldn’t. He began to shake his head again. “Its no use,” he said, eyes shining again in the cloudy light.
His was a thousand little deaths- the last time he plowed a field, the last time he drove a car, the last time he served communion at church. And I forsaw the deaths before us- the last time he would dress himself, the last time he would remember the correct date and year, the last time he would remember who I was, the last time he would remember who he was.
“You don’t need to remember, don’t upset yourself about that anymore, it doesn’t matter,” I told him, but he was staring past me now, over my shoulder towards the mirror and his reflection in it, but seeming to see past it, somewhere I couldn’t reach.
I walked into the house, shutting the door behind me, the floor creaking under the thin worn carpet.
“Grandpa?” I called, stepping into the kitchen where my Grandmother had left the dishwasher running before she left for the hairdresser’s, where she went every Saturday, the water swishing, dishes clanking. I paused to look out the window over the sink, out over the yard and the barbed wire fence lined grazing pasture dotted with black angus cows, hill creeping down the gravel lane to meet the newly paved county road. My Grandparent’s house always smelled dusty from the shelves my Grandmother couldn’t reach anymore in her cleaning, the dirt tracked in on boots from the fields my Grandfather couldn’t work anymore. “Grandpa? Where are you at?” I called again, crossing the dining room with golden yellow shag carpet my Grandma thought fitting when they remodeled the farmhouse in the 70s, her china cabinet with glass doors and brass knobs filled with her bell collection- little porcelain bells from all over the world, Germany, England, Mexico, Canada, everywhere her or her children or their children had traveled.
I stepped into the doorway of their bedroom and found my Grandpa standing before the closet lined with mirrors, his feet bare, in a suit coat and matching pants of grey, a red and gold striped tie tightened under his liverspotted sagging neck. He stared at his reflection and his eyes looked wet. A pile of clothes lay on the floor beside him. The curtains were drawn and the cloudy overcast afternoon light struggled to get in through the lace and venetian blinds- the room bathed in blue grey.
“What are you doing?” I asked. His head snapped over to me, he jumped back a little- he hadn’t heard me come in.
“Becky,” he said, his voice faint, turning back slowly to look at himself, his hands falling into his suit coat pocket, trying to straighten himself out. His grey hair was only a thin crown around the sides of his head, the top shiny from rubbing it with oil, always so vain, but covered in scabs and bumps he nervously picked at especially when cornered and trying to remember something, digging to try to reach inside and pull it out. I stepped into the bedroom- never changed in all my years. Frilly bedskirt, blue quilted throw, dresses and suits hung in plastic bags in the closet. The picture of their children on the dresser- Bobby, my Dad, Vicki, Cheryl, and Christy, now dead, smiling on a haystack when they were children in the barn across the road, a beam of light coming down on their faces.
“Are you okay?” I asked, placing my hand on his shoulder. He pulled his hands out and began unbuttoning his suit coat, letting the three buttons pop open.
“Well, may as well get rid of em, all of em,” he said, his voice crackly from being quiet so long, sliding off the coat to toss it in a pile with all the others. I wondered how long he had been at this- all his Sunday suits, the ones he wore over and over again, graduations and weddings, so proud, smelling like Old Spice and moth balls.
“What do you mean?” I asked, finally feeling how his mind was slipping.
“Throw em away because its over, its all goddamn over I say,” he said, slumping to sit on the edge of the bed, his bottom lip quivering. I’d never seen him like this.
My Grandfather the workhorse. When I thought of him I always first saw his hands- cracks stained with oil on his calloused palms, nails of dirt and grime. He always worse overalls with homesewn patches in the places they had ripped while throwing haybales on the back of the trailer with his stitched chestnut leather boots on his feet stamped with mud and fresh manure from his relentless rounds of hoghouse and field. He drove his yellow pick up truck up and down the lane all through the day, stirring up gravel dust as he rode past all that he had made or built upon from his father and his father and his father before that and on and on and on and after him too- his son, my Dad, my Dad who had failed the line and bore three girls instead of a single farmer.
“Don’t say that, its going to be okay,” I said, knowing I was lying. He started shaking his head violently back and forth, looking up at me. I knew he wasn’t okay. He knew it too- these episodes were happening more and more often.
I remembered sitting on his lap at the kitchen table as he helped guide my hand as it clutched in tiny knuckles and fingers the silver knife, spreading yellow sweet cream butter over Wonderbread for lunch. How he showed me how he liked to eat watermelon, with a generous shake of salt and pepper. How he helped me saddle my horse so I could move cows from the worn down grazing field to the next one over that had gotten some time to grow itchy grasses as tall as my waist.
“I can’t remember, I can’t remember,” he was saying, and I saw how old he was, the man I knew shrinking away. He is almost gone, I thought. How much longer will he hold on? I cursed myself for wishing he would just let go, just die. Walter Earl, was dying, his mind at least. His shell would remain once his consciousness finally evaporated as his memories sank away more and more into the past.
“What can’t you remember?” I asked, kneeling down in front of him, looking up at him, a hand on his knee, trying to keep his focus, to help him think with my steady gaze meeting his.
“I wore this suit, I bought it for something, I can’t remember. Your grandmother would know,” he said, looking around and behind him desperately, like a lost child, hoping to find her there. I could see on his face that he forgotten where she had gone but he didn’t want to ask because he knew he should remember but couldn’t. He began to shake his head again. “Its no use,” he said, eyes shining again in the cloudy light.
His was a thousand little deaths- the last time he plowed a field, the last time he drove a car, the last time he served communion at church. And I forsaw the deaths before us- the last time he would dress himself, the last time he would remember the correct date and year, the last time he would remember who I was, the last time he would remember who he was.
“You don’t need to remember, don’t upset yourself about that anymore, it doesn’t matter,” I told him, but he was staring past me now, over my shoulder towards the mirror and his reflection in it, but seeming to see past it, somewhere I couldn’t reach.