Long Ago

“When I was your age,” she says softly.

I step towards the door, anxious to be gone. After all, I do have a busy weekend ahead of me. I’ve got a basketball game tonight, and a sleepover tomorrow, and a practice after that, not to mention heaps of homework to finish. Doesn’t she understand? No, she probably doesn’t. I sigh quietly. It’s been so long.

“Yes?” My voice comes out sharply. I wince as I hear my words.

She doesn’t notice the interruption; she’s obviously dazed with sleep and weariness. Her voice trails off, and we stand together, yet apart, in a solemn bubble of silence. Time filters slowly, like light blurring through a glass. I wish she would finish. The silence drags on, chiding me. I inspect my jacket, making sure it doesn’t have any tears. It’s new, after all. I admire it for a moment, but soon turn my attention back to the old woman seated before me, much to my regret. Isn’t my mom going to pick me up soon? I turn on my phone. I start to respond to Lexi’s new gossip, but her slow voice, straining to be heard, jolts me back to the presence. Slowly, I turn off my phone and focus on her.

“You know, Amanda,” she says.

“Yes?” I’m still indignant, but she doesn’t notice.

The dim fluorescent light glows upon her face, making her seem weary. Wrinkles line her face and neck, and her blue eyes are watery. Her hair is merely a tuft of grey, and she seems so tired. For a moment, I feel a stirring of pity. Slowly, she looks up at me and continues, her memory unraveling like yarn.

“When I was your age,” she mumbles. Her voice is raspy, and it quivers as frequently as Jello. I nod diligently, wondering when this tired conversation will end. I resist again the urge to take out my phone. Stop, I tell myself. The visiting time will be over soon enough.

“When I was your age, I—“ She pauses. Again, she’s searching for her words. Mom told me this had slowly been happening for years, over time. When did this decline start, when her capabilities were slowly reduced? When did she stop existing as “functioning,” and instead turn into “a senior who needs assistance, even just to survive?” When did she lose the bright look in her eyes, now turned to hazy confusion?

“Yes?” I know my lines, I think grimly. I wait for her to answer, hoping that she will finish this sentence. I brush back my hair into a dark ponytail. It feels like a paintbrush. I run my hand over the top of my head, making sure it doesn’t stick up. To my relief, it’s perfect. I look up at the old woman’s eyes beside me, but they are devoid of any emotions that I could recognize.

“When I was your age, I . . . I was an artist.” I look at her. She seems real to me now. It seems so long ago that she wasn’t dependent on volunteers to walk, or to find the lunchroom correctly, or to remember all of the memories that have since dimmed in her mind.

“Oh.” My painful words feel so inadequate. I realize that her window-shade is closed, and so I go over to open it. I strain for a moment, and she watches me. Her eyes are clouded with distant memories, or perhaps just forgetfulness. How much, really, does she remember? I open the shade quickly, glad to be done with the awkward task.

“Th-thank you.” Her voice creaks like an old staircase. With a tremendous amount of effort, she gets up slowly, and shuffles over to the chair behind her strict hospital bed. Her feet are encased in big Velcro shoes, and once again, I feel pity. Once, she was truly alive and happy. Now, it seems that she is a mere shell, simply hanging on. I watch her. What is she doing? Maybe I should go stop her. No, she seems happy enough.

Carefully, she walks over to me, a piece of paper held between her tired, withered hands. She is shorter than I remembered, and she pauses a moment, standing before me. Her eyes look weary, and she searches my face a moment to remember who I am.

“Here.” She slowly holds out her hands, making sure she doesn’t drop her parcel. I take it and unfold it slowly, feeling her eyes watching me. Suddenly, I feel self-conscious. As I unwrap it, I realize it’s a picture of the nativity scene. It’s a scene taken from a coloring book. I glance up at her hands, frail and trembling even now. How many hours did it take her to coax her hand to color in the simple manger scene? Pangs of guilt hit my stomach. We haven’t been to church in years. She always loved it, but our lives got busier, and anyway, other things came up. She always loved Christmas, after all. Her eyes scan my face, eagerly looking for signs of happiness.

“Merry . . . Christmas,” she whispers. As she shuffles back to her bed to sit down, I recognize hints of the woman who she was. I look at her again, and a lump fills in my throat. Now I remember Christmases baking cookies, holidays sharing stories, vacations spent laughing because of a clever joke she told. That woman had seemed so far away for years, and yet, she is here again tonight.

“Thank you . . . Grandma.” As I leave the room, I see that her eyes too are blurred by a thin veil of tears.