novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- eagle scout her trailer is unlocked so i open the door and step inside. i shout hello grandma! and begin to walk to the living room until i notice that it is dark. from the moonlight through the heavy plastic blinds i see that there is no television or chair left in the living room, only breathing machines and other hospital things scattered like detritus. i follow the light flickering down the hall and find an image of demi moore dressed as a naval officer flickering on the tiny tv facing my grandmother's mammoth bed. perched on the corner, she is focusing on a bunch of red grapes like a hungry little bird. her body has become birdlike; her arthritic fingers barely uncurl and she thrusts her veined hands out over the grapes, pecking at the fruit. her hands are shaking. she has her legs arranged in front of her body, knees touching, and they appear smaller than the rest of her, as if she hasn't moved in a long time. she is wearing one of her favorite sweatsuits, one of the sets that she bought around the time i was born. it is fuschia. she notices me and immediately a hand flies up to pat her hair. her eyes widen and she can't decide whether to focus on me or demi moore. i take off my shoes and sit on her bed noticing the following two things simultaneously: the blanket on her bed is probably the same one that she bought at a PX in costa rica, when she and my grandfather were living there, when my mother and uncle were small children. (my mother learned to be fluent in spanish but forgot it all once my grandfather was re-assigned to america.) and her hair is not set. my grandmother is meticulous about her hair. she has to have it cut with a razor and set weekly, but ever since the monthlong convalescent stay she's let her hair color fade and her pillow dictate how her hair curls. it's too much of a bother. i can't see to drive anymore, so i can't get it done every week. if i lived here, i'd take you every week, grandma. i know you would. but it's just not worth it now. i can't see to drive. i have macular degeneration in my right eye. i had implants, you know. i know. didn't make a difference. and (she brushes a curled hand along her hairline, raising her limp hair from her forehead) i'm letting my gray come in. everyone says i look about ten years younger. it does make you look younger (lie). it makes you look softer (truth). that's what they say. they say i look about a decade younger than i really am. after a while grandma and i talk about dreams. i tell her about how i used to have recurring dreams as a child, and she nods. i used to, too. i'd always dream about falling down this well, or it was a dirt hole. i'd be falling down a well, just falling and falling, but i never hit bottom. i just fell. and then i'd wake up. grandma notices that the tv is still on. she clicks it off and turns to face me again. if you hit the bottom, that means you're supposed to die. did you know that? 1:24 am - 07.26.05 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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