It was the afternoon. Light came through the slanted shades, creating a
stuffy, lazy haze. I hesitated at the doorway, noticing a familiar scent. It
was like the nursing homes I used to visit, singing hymns while most residents
slept through the music, unaware or not interested in our presence. I never
wanted to go back. But now that same odor was in my grandmommy’s hospital room.
The scent of the old and stale. It reminded me of old sheets, matted with
sweat, food stains and time. My body naturally recoiled but my mom pushed me
inside.
“It’s ok, go on in,” she whispered in my ear.
She looked so small, surrounded by a huge steel frame, swallowing her up.
She’s changed, as if the hospital sucked out her spirit that was aware, alive
and sparkling. She didn’t seem to recognize me but reached out her hand
anyways. Her hands are familiar, small and slender with knobby knuckles and
bulging veins. They are my mom’s hands. They are also mine. She looked at me
vaguely.
She glanced down, noticing something dangling, catching the light of
the rays through the window.
“What is this?” she asked, grabbing my necklace. My head suddenly jerks
down towards her. How can someone so frail be so strong? But she was always
surprising like that. She was a sprite in appearance but a tiger in nature. She
was bold and brave. That pride is dotted in our family. Somehow it missed me.
“It’s my necklace.” I whisped, her grip still holding me tight. I
remember searching through the store, knowing exactly what I wanted. It was
buried in the back, with other sales items. I knew it had to be pink. As I grew
older my love for pink would turn to hatred, fighting against tradition. Pink
is for girls. Pink is for the lesser sex. Pink is weak.
My grandmommy stared at it, gliding her fingers over the pink heart-shaped
pendant.
“It’s pretty,” she said and let go. The release of pressure around my
neck sent small shivers up my spine. Grandmommy stared up at me. Her eyes big
and dark. I knew they were blue, but today they were so murky and immense. I
was unsure where to look, unsure of what to say. I was always the one who sat
silently in class, hoping not to be called on, not to be noticed. I was
frequently asked, ‘why don’t you talk?’ That question caused my brain to panic
and go blank. It was like a spark from an outlet, franticly trying to catch the
current, but missing and instead burned out quickly. A misfire. A malfunction.
A faulty wire.
She patted my hand aimlessly as I turned red. My gut ached with all the
things I should have said but there was a heavy weight wrapped around my
throat, dragging me down into the floor. I could have easily crawled among the
floorboards and slept, waiting until I was ready. Waiting for that ache to grow
and burn me up.
I could have said “I love you. I love you grandmommy.”
I would grab her and go to her house. We would play with her massive
elegant, silver tea set that was too heavy to carry. We’d search the deep
freezer for treats, eat apples from the tree and timidly explore the quiet
‘blue room.’ I liked to pretend it was a room belonging to a prince who
tragically died young. His room was left untouched, impeccably clean. The room
was so still, smelling of laundered, old cotton. The wallpaper was a beautiful blue
floral print with a majestic swirl pattern. Everything was perfectly in place. The
bedspread and carpet were also light and dark shades of blue, respectively, perfectly
complementing each other. The only items that were not blue were the white,
lacey curtains. This room always calmed my anxious spirit with its refined
tranquility. We would stay here and hide. So you won’t go away. Stay here
grandmommy. I want you to stay and fill the room with your energy, your
vitality ad warmth.
Why didn’t I say
that? Instead, I silently walked away, out of the room. Maybe next time I’ll
know what to say. Next time. But next time faded away, just like you. It
floated away, like maple samaras in the spring.
What happened to
you? Did you drift away, unable to be tied down? Or do you drop, like lead into
the dirt and rock, held captive in the muck and dark? Are you like a
will-o’-the-wisp, too quick to contain? Or did you move slowly, hovering
nearby, heavy with longing but unable to be seen? Did you slowly disappear over
time, along with our memories? But maybe you can be found again, like hidden
buttercups in early spring. All I need is wait for winter to end.
But she is here.
She’s here in my hands. At work, my students think my hands are strange,
transparent with bulging blue veins, like a ‘halmeoni’ or grandmother. They
call my hands grandmother hands, thinking they look old. They are right. They
are just like hers.
