Friday, February 4, 2011

A small story of mine

"Someone is here to see you!" I waited for my grandmother to change expression but she sat there blankly. I walked into the room. I walked in that special walk that helped her remember her baby boy, my father. All of my visits are mostly out of pity but it makes me feel better as a person to attempt to grasp of what memory she has left. I am the only family member left to talk to her. She may have been mentally ill before but this time she was harmless. I had on a plain gray bowling shirt and jeans. I kept my hands in my pocket as I waked. I tried to walk a loose and laid back as I can. I kept my long hair stuck up in my baseball cap. It helped her some days but made her worse others. I stood there with my hands in my pockets but my thumbs out. I awkwardly stood there as she, once again, observed my new profile. After a few minutes of awkward greeting, my grandmother smiled. "Come, sit. I have made diner." my grandmother went to the kitchen. I always made sure that I would make and have her helper deliver the lasagna. I sat down at the table and waited. "here we are" my grandmother sat down the plate and put the fizzed drink on the table. I began to eat when she sat down. I knew too well not to wait or ask if she was going to eat. I ate as she watched. Watching me eat was the most fascinating thing to her. I watched in the corner of my eye as she smiled and enjoyed my eating. I knew not to look at her back but to act as if I didn't notice. When I was done, I set my knuckles on my thighs and leaned back, swishing my tongue back and forth in my mouth. I stared forward and counted to forty. I looked down. My plate was gone. I counted to one-hundred three and soon enough, desert was sitting on my new plate. I ate that too and gave her the gesture that I was done. She picked up my plate and went into the kitchen. After thirty minutes, I got up and went to the bedroom. There she was, sleeping as always.

1 comment:

  1. I have never responded with something that was not a respose

    The view out to Lilly Avenue from the fourth floor east side window of the Brookdale apartment building, the only window in Mclarence Woodrow's dingy two room apartment, was incredibly dull and, by extension, ached with despair. Grey tree bark lazily grabbed at sullen grey clouds as fat raindrops, bone chilling, splashed into deep muddy slush puddles for an altogether greyer than grey scene. It was, in fact, so mind numbingly dull, and indeed ached so strongly with despair that a majority of local commuters chose to bypass it on the new route 86 despite its lengthy wraparound. While most avoided this street at all cost, Mr. Woodrow found the view from his fingerprint laden window comforting. Above and below him, although no proof existed, Mclarence remained certain that the neighbors were enjoying a veritable Disney Land of glee. "Two thousand," he said in a distinctly deep and monotonous voice as he listlessly slid from his bed,"two hundred," his speech was labored and grew slower with each utterance,"and seventy three." Mclarence had a strange habit of counting; this number, which increased by exactly one exactly every day, remained entrenched in his mind more than even his own birth day. While shaving he cut himself and could not, for the life of him or another, tell if it was a accident or not. "How dreadful," he said in a slightly reminiscent tone as hot red blood swirled down the musty grey drain. He watched the crimson circus with a distant shameful look, as though lost in thought."But on this matter," he once said,"There is only feeling." Neglecting to tend to his wounds, Mclarence wandered into the kitchen where he fixed himself a bowl of oatmeal, plain, and a mug of warm water while teetering back and fourth on the familiar red stool. Sadly, this just about this sums up Mr. Woodrow's contemporary existence. A few short years ago he amassed a small fortune to last him for the rest of his life, providing that he resided in the dingy fourth floor apartment on Lilly Avenue and avoided such luxuries as cinnamon or chairs, and that's what he did. Mr. Woodrow spent the majority of his days, not quite under pressure, far from ease in the familiar red stool with a wobbly leg, always unsure.