I don’t know if I should start with my grandmother’s ululation or the discorded barking of Boxer, her elderly dog. I’m also not sure which of the two holds more importance, but they usually come in the same pile of thoughts. It would also be treasonous not to mention her long floral dress, which swept the ground as she swirled and dug her feet into the sand with every jump she took. She would grace my arrival with a hearty song and a dance which is only but a souvenir of her youth. We would both share the gift within the moment, happiness. It would sit on my shoulders, make its way to my long arms then come across to my grandmother as we hugged the loneliness out of each other. One out of age and another, out of the pain of existence. Her rosary would press a hole on my chest and her lotion’s scent would take over my nose, going further to colonize my clothes, leaving a trail of her odor sitting on me. I would greet her on our third embrace and await her long struggle to tell me what part of her body has been aching for the longest time. We would stroll to her little garden, Boxer trailing behind us, every step a fit to defy death as he had eaten off many dog years. We would laugh at the smallest of things and share the delicacies of our parallel lives. The decades which lay between us were filled up by smiles and the unsaid love which we both carried on our backs. She would start pestering me with all kinds of foods, complaining of my small stomach and claiming how healthy I would look if only I had a pot belly and some saggy tits. The night would fall on our heads as we intricately conversed, bridging our sorrows and happiness to one solid bonding session. I would eventually fall asleep, and she would wait for my grandfather to keep her company. I usually did not wait for that. I didn’t want to see him, but he came for me anyway. Sometimes I needed not see him; the creaking floor and the sound of his third leg, a walking stick, would announce his arrival. I would cover my head with my blanket and shut myself off his whispers. The room would get cold, which is what I think he felt, cold. I would wait to hear the floor creak again as he left the room to occupy his eighty-four-inch box which lay buried under the kitchen’s flooring.
Sincerely
Craig
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