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February 26, 2004
I Don't Think I Heard You
Grandma,
Do you remember how we all crowded into your tiny, sterile room that weekend? The doctors wrapped you with sponges, and we watched reruns on CBS from the boxy television that hung in the corner.
Grandma,
Do you remember the summer when Dad almost died? You scooped us up with your red King James Bible, and wailed about the living room all night. I sulked in a corner with a popsicle.
Grandma,
Do you remember when I used to dress up in your big, floppy church hats? You let me put on your high heels, and I'd parade around the apartment like a miniature duchess. Then you'd take your precious gloves and stretch them over my thin brown hands, protecting me from dust.
Grandma,
Do you remember how you used to iron our bedsheets? No wrinkles, no wrinkles, no wrinkles, no wrinkles. Everything was starched and crisp. Mom said you were crazy.
Grandma,
Do you remember the night your husband died? He passed out in the restaurant after having a stroke. Just right after Christmas and right before New Year's. He didn't even finish his sausage.
Grandma,
Do you remember bathing us in Aunt Terri's gigantic bathtub? Everything smelled like talcum powder and lace. You made me scrub my face harder than anyone had before.
Grandma,
Do you remember buttermilk pound cake, macaroni and cheese, and sweet potato pies? I never saw you measure the sugar or the flour, but it always came out just right.
Grandma,
Do you remember the night in the hospital when we all sat in front of you and stared at the ceiling? The leaves were burning outside, and the smell was creeping into my nose. I wanted you to come outside with me and smell it for yourself.
Grandma,
Do you remember the shag carpet that your husband laid for you in your boxy house? All blue and red, and straight out of 1963. It was a technicolor world.
Grandma,
Do you remember the summer you sent me out for a jar of pickles? We sat out on the porch and feasted on greasy hamburgers and shriveled-up hot dogs while everyone else worried about the Fourth of July.
Grandma,
Do you remember all the bright candies you used to keep in the dish by the television? They were hard and chalky, because no one had bothered to eat them in years. Even way back then, I thought they sparkled like glass.
Grandma,
Do you remember the last time you saw me? The lights were low, and the television was on mute. You touched me with your paraffin hands and made me want to melt.
Grandma,
Do you remember any of these things?
I do.
posted at 1:04 p.m.
