misswarriors
New Member
“Change the channel.” My grandmother croaks, lifting a bony finger at the TV, her body trembling like chattering teeth. I hurriedly comply. As soon as the channel changes, she rests, wrapping her brittle bones in a withered blanket. On the TV, people crowd around a casket, huddling together and resting soft hands on the dead woman’s body, praying over her soul. Every day and every night they pray, holding hands, embracing each other. As she stares at the screen, I see the light of a thousand dead wishes in my grandmother’s eyes. Even her thick glasses cannot hide her tears at the old woman’s face, captured in an expression of eternal peace, surrounded by those who love her.
Suddenly, the front door bursts open and my mother jogs through, her workout clothes soaked with sweat. She smiles at me and wipes her flushed forehead. When she looks at my grandmother, that smile drops.
“Have you given your granddaughter any ice cream today?” she asks sharply. As my mother stares expectantly at her, my grandmother doesn’t move, only crying tears from deep within her heart. Unphased, my mother fetches a pint of ice cream, an ice cream scooper, and a bowl, setting them down on the TV tray in front of my grandmother.
“Give your granddaughter some ice cream.” My mother urges, jaw clenching. When she receives no response, she snatches my grandmother’s hands, tearing them from their safety. As her hands are snatched, I see just how thin my grandmother has become. Like twigs crudely tied together to make something that resembles a person. I see the bruises that dot her skin in uncomfortable purple patches. I see the corpse-like grayness that has infected every part of her. How much has she lost over the years? How much of her is gone forever, and what still lives inside her, unable to do anything?
My mother’s and grandmother’s hands open the pint and pick up the ice cream scooper. Their hands disappear into the ice cream carton as they dig into the bottom of the pint. They scrape and scrape and scrape, all the way into the bottom of the carton, creating gashes in the plastic.
At that moment, I see a thousand dead wishes in my mother’s eyes. I see my grandmother wrapped in a pretty white shawl, smiling at her grandchildren as they play in the slip-and-slide in front of her. I see my mother behind her, a hand on her shoulder, forever preserved in time. A moment that doesn’t include my grandmother’s gray hands, or tears, or the funeral on TV. As I remember everything we’ve lost, emotion wells up inside me. Don’t you know that can’t happen anymore, mom?
Satisfied, my mother finally releases my grandmother’s hands. They fall back onto the safety of her lap, but they don’t look safe anymore. New bruises are already forming.
“Here, for you.” My mother hands me the bowl of ice cream. I take it and look into the bowl, to the pile of ice cream scoops. Flecks of plastic dust over them like a fresh coat of snow. How many more times would that same pint be abused? How many more scoops would it take?
On the TV, people still huddle around the old woman, but I notice something different this time. The group is no longer a crowd. Instead, it’s just two people. A woman and a girl, holding hands, embracing each other. Praying over the old woman’s soul. They rest soft hands on the woman’s body, shedding tears and yet smiling. Really smiling because they’re finally letting her go. Each of them leans down to kiss the old woman’s head, then slowly leaves the room, wiping their eyes as they go. Then, alone at last, the old woman is finally able to rest. She gets the funeral she always wanted. As I remember everything we’ve lost, emotion wells up inside me. Don’t you know that can’t happen anymore, grandmother?
Beside me, there’s the sound of ragged breaths. I turn to the noise and see my mother, a casket reflected in her eyes. Her face bursts with red as if stung by a thousand bees. Wrinkles form between her brows. Her fists ball so tight her hands tremble. And then, with the ferocity of a snapping rubber band, she snatches the remote.
“Death doesn’t look like that.” She says and ends it.
The funeral flicks into blackness like a sparkler suddenly fizzing out. The TV screen is lifeless yet still alive. Now it reflects my grandmother’s face, captured in an expression of eternal sorrow.
Suddenly, the front door bursts open and my mother jogs through, her workout clothes soaked with sweat. She smiles at me and wipes her flushed forehead. When she looks at my grandmother, that smile drops.
“Have you given your granddaughter any ice cream today?” she asks sharply. As my mother stares expectantly at her, my grandmother doesn’t move, only crying tears from deep within her heart. Unphased, my mother fetches a pint of ice cream, an ice cream scooper, and a bowl, setting them down on the TV tray in front of my grandmother.
“Give your granddaughter some ice cream.” My mother urges, jaw clenching. When she receives no response, she snatches my grandmother’s hands, tearing them from their safety. As her hands are snatched, I see just how thin my grandmother has become. Like twigs crudely tied together to make something that resembles a person. I see the bruises that dot her skin in uncomfortable purple patches. I see the corpse-like grayness that has infected every part of her. How much has she lost over the years? How much of her is gone forever, and what still lives inside her, unable to do anything?
My mother’s and grandmother’s hands open the pint and pick up the ice cream scooper. Their hands disappear into the ice cream carton as they dig into the bottom of the pint. They scrape and scrape and scrape, all the way into the bottom of the carton, creating gashes in the plastic.
At that moment, I see a thousand dead wishes in my mother’s eyes. I see my grandmother wrapped in a pretty white shawl, smiling at her grandchildren as they play in the slip-and-slide in front of her. I see my mother behind her, a hand on her shoulder, forever preserved in time. A moment that doesn’t include my grandmother’s gray hands, or tears, or the funeral on TV. As I remember everything we’ve lost, emotion wells up inside me. Don’t you know that can’t happen anymore, mom?
Satisfied, my mother finally releases my grandmother’s hands. They fall back onto the safety of her lap, but they don’t look safe anymore. New bruises are already forming.
“Here, for you.” My mother hands me the bowl of ice cream. I take it and look into the bowl, to the pile of ice cream scoops. Flecks of plastic dust over them like a fresh coat of snow. How many more times would that same pint be abused? How many more scoops would it take?
On the TV, people still huddle around the old woman, but I notice something different this time. The group is no longer a crowd. Instead, it’s just two people. A woman and a girl, holding hands, embracing each other. Praying over the old woman’s soul. They rest soft hands on the woman’s body, shedding tears and yet smiling. Really smiling because they’re finally letting her go. Each of them leans down to kiss the old woman’s head, then slowly leaves the room, wiping their eyes as they go. Then, alone at last, the old woman is finally able to rest. She gets the funeral she always wanted. As I remember everything we’ve lost, emotion wells up inside me. Don’t you know that can’t happen anymore, grandmother?
Beside me, there’s the sound of ragged breaths. I turn to the noise and see my mother, a casket reflected in her eyes. Her face bursts with red as if stung by a thousand bees. Wrinkles form between her brows. Her fists ball so tight her hands tremble. And then, with the ferocity of a snapping rubber band, she snatches the remote.
“Death doesn’t look like that.” She says and ends it.
The funeral flicks into blackness like a sparkler suddenly fizzing out. The TV screen is lifeless yet still alive. Now it reflects my grandmother’s face, captured in an expression of eternal sorrow.
