Remnants

Vignette 02 / This one is my secret from you. Would an apology help?

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It had been two years since I drove down this street to see my grandmother. Two years ago, on Thanksgiving Day, I could not recognize her. The cloud of my childhood memories had cleared, and she was no longer the woman I remembered. I cried outside so she couldn’t see. I loved her still.

I wish a tornado would come and whisk her house off the street. At least then I could explain to myself the condition of the home I once knew. Slowly, I felt the house decomposing each minute that ticked by; the floor seemingly sunk beneath my soles and my stomach dropped as my heart sped up.

I felt safe at home, but this was merely a house.

The electricity was out, and the longer we stayed, the darker the shadows became, and the closer I hovered towards the windows

My father and his sisters moved like spirits as they sifted through their mother’s belongings and the dusty frames. Rummaging through the boxes and hangers in the closet, old yearbooks, they gathered what they would bring home as a keepsake.

We were going to lose the home to the bank. The house wasn’t put into the will in time, but I’m not sure what we would have done with her home anyway. Her overgrown backyard, the peeling floor in the bathroom, the stained sink and unwashed dishes: the bank could take it.

I feel slightly sick when I walk around the house, as if my grandmother will appear and ask me what I am doing, going through her drawers. I wished she would take my hand and let me sleep on her couch while she cooked, and then drape my favorite quilt over my body once I finally fallen asleep.

Her room was a mess. I felt the walls close in on me as I stared into her vanity mirror. The clothes tied in trash bags hung in the closet, while her nightstand table was littered with blades, finished tubes of lipstick, and loose change that had once accumulated in her pockets. A dull meat cleaver sat on her vanity next to a picture of me and her. We were sitting in the living room on a taupe recliner, myself poised on her lap. I remembered this woman.

I could almost picture my grandfather lying still in his bedroom, sunlight pouring on his resting face. The warm yellow comforter was neatly made, and caked with a small layer of invisible dust. I wondered if my grandmother had ever slept in his bed after he died. I wondered if she missed him like I missed her.

Walls painted weathered white and boxes stacked to the ceiling. A single-pane window and a nice view into the overgrown backyard. Closet full of memories and a desk cluttered with trinkets and coins. My father’s bedroom. David’s room. Posters stapled onto the drywall, we thumbed through yearbooks full of faces that sparked no sense of recognition in me.

Flowers that would never grow stayed in full bloom in glass vases. The table that was once covered in boxes of cereal and cookies in silver tins was piled with papers and artificial bouquets of condolences. 

I don’t really remember walking out the door. One moment I was running down the hall in bare feet with my favorite blanket, drinking soup, and picking oranges outside. Then I was staring down the hall into empty rooms, watching the water drip endlessly into the sink, and gliding my finger across the edge of the dull cleaver, trying not to wonder why. Here I am, waiting for her to open the door again, but instead we locked it from the outside.

2017 / 2021