novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- when i try to read i spent my time ferrying grandma to different appointments. the highest compliment she's paid me in years came yesterday: i feel safe driving with you. turn right on walker street. i say, right on walker. where's walker? did you pass it? this is richmond. that was market. you should have turned there. i said market. at the eye doctor she has her reading glasses altered, again, because her line of vision shakes. the words shake when i try to read. i think of them swimming, like my grandmother has suddenly gotten herself trapped inside a late sixties art rock poster. big grandma and the holding company. this makes me laugh a little, until this afternoon, when we are picking up her corrected correctives at the eye glasses store, and the saleswoman at the counter has my grandmother try her altered reading glasses on. it's still shaking when i try to read. "still shaking?" she asks. her eyebrows raise. "and this is the third time you've altered your reading glasses?" yes but my distance glasses and sunglasses still have the same prescription. the saleswoman's mouth forms a little O, and i notice that she used her lipliner to expand her mouth, tracing outside of her lipline and filling to there with lipstick, which doesn't give her the desired effect. i think of a messy eater. a child in a high chair, his mouth smeared with red chocolate. she parrots back what my grandmother has said: "your reading glasses are the only one giving you trouble?" in a small voice the saleswoman blurts, "then it isn't the prescription. it's your reading comprehension..." and her voice fades from smaller to smallest as my back stiffens and i wonder how my grandmother will react. she is squinting at a bright yellow, large-type pamphlet ten inches from her face. she does not look away from it. still shaking, but not so bad. it's not so bad. i think about how it is a sign of senility when reading comprehension degenerates. do the words swim because she can't immediately recall their meanings? my shoulders sag. i try on extremely large, brown plastic reading frames and turn to grandma, trying to get her to laugh. i am about to say something about rick moranis but i remember she wouldn't know who that is. she doesn't look up. afterwards grandma insists on mcdonald's because she has an obsession with hamburgers, so she threads her delicate arm through mine and i escort her the thirty feet across the parking lot. it takes a while; we pause a few times. i take her lead and pretend this is normal. her breath is coming harder and she won't let me run back to the car for her portable oxygen tank. you should get the car and drive it up to the restaurant when we've finished, though. she mutters this. a small admittance. the booths are filled with people who are all at least two and a half times older than me. their hair looks like it has simply decided to rest on their heads; like a small breeze would blow away the wispy strands. grandma shuffles to a booth. i get her fries even though she specifically asked for no fries. i'll just eat too many. i position the fries between us. while she routinely saps the pile clean i notice that even the homeless men outside are in their sixties. tanned toes, hooked noses. santa claus beards and dented paper coffee cups. why is there a dollar there? that man left a dollar on his counter. i look at the homeless man two feet from us, on the other side of the mcdonald's glass, and at his table. i see a crinkled plastic bag. i pause. from that angle, it does sort of look like a dollar bill, grandma. after a bit grandma says this space reserved for mcdonald's drive thru customers only. what does that mean? i give a start and realize that she's just read a sign fifteen feet away. she hasn't been wearing any glasses, distance or reading, inside. that's because sometimes they don't have the food ready for you when you pull up to the window, grandma, and then you have to park and wait a little while. they try to have it ready by the time you pull up but sometimes they can't. sometimes you have to wait. but it comes sooner or later. why'd you get me the fries? i said no fries. she is wearing a teal sweatshirt today. it is the same color as the canvas cover for the portable oxygen tank in the car across the parking lot. i am gauging my grandma's breath and wondering if i can sprint in these shoes. i explain my theory of fast food cravings; how your body can yearn for the familiar taste of mcdonald's but it is never as good as your memory once you finally get it. the hamburgers are artificial and dry and not really hamburgers -- and the cheese isn't even real. that's right, the cheese isn't even real... everything is dry and microwaved but the fries actually taste the way you remember them, and they are the only thing that, in my opinion, mcdonald's should sell. you know, you're right about that. the fries never disappoint. well, fries and those ice cream cones. i like the ice cream cones. only two things, though. i shake my finger at her, as if i'm trying to convince her. i am always over-animated around her these days, flapping nervously until i touch her or buckle her seatbelt, unbuckle her seatbelt, untangle the plastic tubing, unpack her groceries and explain her receipts. flapping nervously. she folds the corners of her napkin down with the tips of her fingers. i don't care for soft serve. hey grandma, remember when we used to make our own ice cream? 9:18 pm - 08.19.05 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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