It’s been a while since I’ve seen her; about 6 months since then. I walk up to the house that she grew up in, my mother grew up in, and partly myself. The garden that grew the colorful tomatoes, peppers, and parsley that she used to use in her cooking, was uncatered, vacant, dead. The spring wind drags the limp leaves across the ground, the once cold air finally lost its kick. I knock on the door, waiting for Grandma’s warm welcome, only receiving a slow creak, as if the house was letting me in.
The light shines dimly between the curtains, particles hovering in the air. The once happy family pictures face down, dust settling on the back of the frames. A choking silence hangs in the air, a silence that didn’t fit the once noisy halls and rooms. No cousins begging for attention, no uncles arguing about Baseball, no aunts discussing gossip, and no grandmother cooking in the kitchen. Dirty pots and pans filled the sink, the gray luster matching the cold in the kitchen.
I saw my old grandmother looking out the window, in her bedroom. She never liked her bedroom, she would rather sleep on the couch, and look out the front window, observing the neighborhood kids.
I remember her telling us how quickly time had passed, when all the boys and girls had left. I remember how she moved about, and never stayed still. I remember when she started limping, and started using a cane. I remember how she used to fight with the doctors, telling them to get rid of the hospital bed in her room. I remember how she started to talk less and less, when they started to prescribe her fentanyl. I remember how her complaints turned into whimpers. I remember how much she despised sitting down.
I look at her now, looking out the back window, staring at nothing but overgrown grass being swayed by the wind. She didn’t notice when I walked in, she hadn’t noticed me still behind her. I put up a family frame in her room, shake off the dust, and stroke her gray hair. She stays still. No movement. No reaction. Nothing. I turn around, head down, and I take my leave, closing the door behind me. The wind picks up again, howling at me, like if it were pushing me away from the house. Leaves from the garden drift past me. I hope to come back to the house. I hope to see her waiting for me again.
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