Extraordinary

Her bedroom was full of boxes filled with clothes she might wear sometime. There were two pathways—one from the door to the bed, the other to the closet. Her dressers were stacked with presents. I saw mine, a boxed set of hankies for special occasions, unopened and unused. When it was time to go to bed I would find some excuse to come talk to her—were my shoulders square, should I cut my bangs, did red look good on me—and then, somehow, I would stay. And there we were, two people—an eleven-year old girl and a seventy-year old woman—alone in the house, sleeping in a single bed. The dogs were outside in the pen and would bark through the night to let us know what was going on.

I knew everything about Grammaw. Getting ready for bed I saw her cotton underwear, her tied corset, and full slip. Her breasts were like deflated balloons and her stomach had small folds that told of her giving birth to four children. The bathroom was too far during the night and so she used a small, white enameled chamber pot next to the bed. The faint trickle stirred me awake, but then I would fall back to sleep. Early in the morning the bed was empty and she would be downstairs in the kitchen making buckwheat pancakes, sausage, and poached eggs. I would stare at the red plastic clock on the wall above me and hold my breath, watching the seconds to try and break a new record for myself, and eventually fall back to sleep.

We sometimes shared her bed, my grandmother and I, alone in the darkness. We were the only two people in a seven-bedroom house, politely not disturbing each other while we slept, but wanting some human contact. She was once young, had dreams, married, and had children. She had disappointments and she had friends. Widowed from an unhappy marriage, she lived her life alone amongst all this with her garden, her house, and her roses. As a child I thought this was all very ordinary. Now that I know how life can be, it was really quite extraordinary, and quite sad.

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