Day 19: At Eighty

One of my favorite things to do is drive grandmothers around.

They’re not my grandmothers, of course, who are both long gone. But they are someone’s.

I open the passenger door for them, though they fuss at me not to. I turn on the heated seats and I help with the seatbelt, which can be cranky. I drive slowly, giving us room.

Questions I’d like to ask are: Who loved you most? Who did you love most? Who did you wish to love that you couldn’t?

I don’t ask, of course. But somewhere, lodged underneath their words, are the answers.

Day 18: Teacher

My first grade teacher had blonde hair in the front and brown in the back, with a middle part and Farrah wings. She often wore brown plaid bell-bottoms and a cream-colored blouse.

She chose me as her helper, clapping erasers or distributing papers. I was a good reader and listener, but, looking back, I suspect she could see how desperately I needed to please adults.

She’s likely gone now. A Google search returned nothing, since I don’t remember her first name. I’m thinking of her today, appreciating her and the dozen other women who raised me outside of my home.

Day 16: Holly, Jolly

There is nothing quite as deflating as the blankness of a room after Christmas decorations have been taken down. The empty tree stand left outside on the patio, the half-wall stacked with folded laundry instead of hanging with stockings, the pile of wrapping paper rolls balanced on the monstrous blue plastic tote to be returned to the basement. It’s insulting, really, to spend an evening with no twinkling lights, to open a door with no wreath, to stand at a kitchen counter with no cookies. I put the stray cut of ribbon, almost eaten by the vacuum, into my pocket.

Day 14: Search

Her voice lifts when I tell her who’s calling. We chat a bit about the pitiful, gray rain that was supposed to be a full-on blizzard.

I explain that I need her help finding a document for the bank. “They can’t open the account without it.”

“There’s a file cabinet I could check,” she offers.

I say, “No rush,” though the bank would disagree. I picture her hair draping against her neck, and her small hands with their silver, spinning rings. I imagine us searching the dim attic together in thoughtful silence, the quiet stacks of books keeping my secret.

Day 11: The Last of Us

My Playstation 4 was a “fuck yeah, I’m done with radiation” gift to myself. I’d heard the raves about Redemption, my daughter wanted Detroit, and we were still in loose lockdown.

There began my dance with The Infected. I started with a flashlight, a pistol, and a partner. I gained a child to smuggle to safety. I leveled up to rifle, bow, and Molotov cocktail; I lost the partner, but earned strength and stealth as I avoided infection and killed (several hundred) enemies.

I finished, not well, but true, and knew what it meant as I began the dance again.

Day 10: Invitation

I probably should have brought my phone for it’s flashlight, but the moon lights the way through my snowy backyard to my neighbor’s house.

I smell yeast bread on the icy air as I approach her back steps.

I only stand in her kitchen for a moment, long enough for her to place the bag in my hands. “Still warm,” she says. I can see six shiny, golden-brown rolls inside.

At home, minutes later, my daughter eats two in a row. “They’re the best I’ve ever had!” And they are, soft, buttery buds of warmth, reminding us were not alone.

Day 7: Country Road

Vivian plays the organ for our church. She lives alone in a two-story white farmhouse, the kind they make horror movies about. Last night, I picked her up and we drove to town.
A half-mile in, she turned up the heat and told me about her son’s accident. He’d only had his car for a month when he fell asleep at the wheel, hit a culvert, and was launched into a treetop, where he hung upside-down by his lap belt.
“The branches cradled that car like a bird’s nest,” she said plainly, her thinning blonde hair fragile as corn silk.

Day 5: Prized Possession

If I had to (today) pick an item to take to a desert island, it would be a coffee table book of art history (painting, sculpture, architecture) showing works (great and obscure) from all eras, which would be a catalog of beauty (for my eyes), but would also describe the succession of styles from what came before to where they did lead, because that might explain how my mind, which for a year was a torpid watercolor (bleeding formless across a fiber card that was illness) has leaped into the urgent, saturated squares and black borders of a comic book.