Emily Kaitus

Ending of December

December 23

     The passenger window in my mom’s Cadillac doesn’t seal completely.  There’s a familiar gelid breeze whistling into my right ear, obscuring the sounds of static and Nat King Cole.  Everything seems familiar, but somehow, different. 

     My mom and I are on our way to my Grandpa’s, where I spend Christmas break every year.  As usual, my mom is wearing her metallic Christmas tree earrings, and smacking her holly-berry lips together constantly, and I am feeling a little annoyed.  Because as always, the heat is blasting and ruffling the pages of my journal, which I’m having a hard time focusing on between the radio and the wind and the smacking. 

     Usually, I would slip into a warm reverie anyway, anticipating cocoa and presents and snowflakes.  I would find comfort in these little unconventional traditions.  This year, though, I’m thinking about the intentions behind our traditions.  It is rather strange that I live with my mom but spend holidays and summers with my Grandpa.  Perhaps I’m strange, too, because I’ve been immune to the strangeness of this until now.

-Simone

 

December 23–later

     Mom didn’t stay long.  She didn’t want to have to stop at a hotel on the drive home, so she had to go. 

     I was so happy to see Grandpa, though.  He asked me about school, and I told him how I had entered a poetry contest.  He told me he had found another duet we could learn on the piano, and that Grandma wanted us to come tomorrow at noon.  I said that I couldn’t wait.

     Then we sat silently for a little while, like we always do.  Sometimes, we’ll both start thinking deeply, and when we speak again, it often happens that we were thinking about the same thing.  I was the one who broke the silence this time.  But I didn’t mean to say what I did.

     “Is it because she’s had enough?  Do I come here because she can’t take it anymore?”

     I felt guilty and self-indulgent for asking my Grandpa these two questions.  His blue-grey eyes looked so beautifully sweet and sad afterward.  But then, he smiled a little.

     “Simone, I’m a selfish, stubborn old brute.  You know that.  I miss your Grandma . . . I ask your mom if you can come here to visit us.  You and Gram are my two best friends, kid.”

 

     One of the things I love about my Grandpa is that I don’t think he even knows how to lie.  I hated myself for almost making him cry, though, so I left the questions alone, too.  I told him he was the truest friend I’ve ever had.  And I thanked him for asking for me to come.

      We made ornaments with pipe cleaners and plastic beads for tomorrow morning, something we’ve done since I was about six.  We drank hot chocolate, too, and listened to Simon & Garfunkel, and each ate four candy canes.  Those are some of the traditions I love!  I told my Grandpa this and he laughed.  He laughs often, and so do I, when I’m here.   

       -Simone

 

December 24–morning

     I started wandering around the nursing home today like I do every year, looking for friends.  It’s a wonderful feeling!  Ask an old lady or an old man their name and one question–or maybe two, if they’re a little shy–and they will usually tell you their whole life story.  You don’t have to respond hardly at all, and they will almost always form the conclusion that you are the sweetest, most mannerly young person they’ve met in ages.  It really makes me love them.

     Of course I went with Grandpa to visit Grandma first.  Although Grandma isn’t the kind of old person to pay compliments or give away peppermints, she will tell you her whole life story.  Sometimes it changes a little, not because her memory is faulty, but because she believes that no one remembers her.  It doesn’t really matter that the stories change; I only wish she didn’t believe that.  I try to make her feel special.

     “Hello, you two.  Simone, when did you get in?  Wait a minute–your Christmas present, your Christmas present.  It’s on the windowsill.  Go, open it up, honey.  Go on.”  Before I can untie the bow, she says, “I was going to knit one for your mother . . . but I . . . forgot.  This memory of mine is surely failing!  Cherish your youth Simone; it won’t last, no it won’t.” 

    This year the scarf is orange and violet.  I’m wearing a red sweater today, and the nursing home temperature is about 95 degrees, but I put it on anyway.  I look ridiculous though, between my freckles, my obnoxiously puffy sweater (it was a present, too), and now–this scarf!  Grandma seems pleased, though.  She’s probably making fun of me, in her own way, which is a little insensitive–but also funny.  She does this to everyone.  After a little while I started feeling so excited and Christmastime-ish that I felt better.  I gave Grandma her Christmas present and a hug and said I’d come back in a little while. 

 

     I visited Mr. Gordon and Mrs. Harris next.  They are two of my favorites.  Mrs. Harris and Mr. Gordon know how much I love to read, and they both give me books every Christmas.  This year, they each gave me a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird.  The one from Mr. Gordon is delightfully crisp and new, and I feel like I can make it my own.  But since Mrs. Harris is in a wheel chair now, it’s very difficult for her to get to the store.  So, the copy she gave me has a wonderful old book smell and is worn and comfortable and yellowed.  It’s a story with so many other stories attached to it.  I will read them both, and I would never tell Mr. Gordon this, but I think I secretly love Mrs. Harris’ present a little bit more.           

     I gave Mrs. Harris a teacup with intricate pale blue flowers painted on it and a silvery handle, for her collection.  To Mr. Gordon I gave a brown photo album and a picture of him and Grandpa.  And I gave them both one of the ornaments Grandpa and I made last night.  They seemed pleased.

     I stayed with Mr. Gordon for a little while and he showed me some of the photographs he has taken lately.  He forgot that he showed me the same ones at Thanksgiving, but I was happy to see them again.  He can take photographs in a way that makes me think I am viewing beauty through someone else’s eyes.  It’s wonderfully liberating.  I know he doesn’t show the pictures to anyone else but Grandpa and I, so it’s very special.

      Today, though, he showed me some photographs that had been taken a long, long time ago.  There was one of him and his two brothers when they were seven.  Mr. Gordon is a triplet!  How funny!  There was another black and white photo that was a little bit out of focus, but clear enough for me to see that the woman in it was exquisitely beautiful.  She had thick, jetty curls and very long eyelashes.  I think what was so beautiful about her, though, was the look in her dark eyes.  Her head was turned slightly to the side and she looked right into the camera, fearlessly happy.  I could tell she loved the person who was taking the picture very, very much.  It was as if the love in her made her lovelier.  It’s sounds cheesy, now, when I say it like that, but there was nothing cheesy about the photograph.  It was one of the most genuine expressions I’ve ever seen.

-Simone

 

December 24–later

     Something wonderful just happened.  I was sitting in the lobby by the fireplace, and trying not to let sadness show on my face, but I really wanted my mom to be here.  I wanted her to meet the people I love so much, to really talk to me and Grandpa and Grandma for once.  I focused on the flames, leaping in brilliant orange and blue and bright yellow.  I told myself not to cry, but I couldn’t help it.  When I’m alone, I never can help it.  My mom once said that I’m overly sensitive, and I am.  Soon enough, the Christmas tree in the lobby became a watery mess of twinkling rainbow lights, and Christmas felt, for the first time, like a miserable affair.

 

     I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder and looked to see a very old woman in a wheelchair extending a handkerchief to me.  I accepted it, and saw that it was embroidered with tiny violet flowers and the initials MEM.  I asked her what they stood for, and she responded by shaping her right hand slowly and shakily into a series of signs.  I watched her intently, but I couldn’t understand.  She must have been able to read my lips, but I couldn’t decipher the message in her hands.

    When I looked at her quizzically, she took a small notebook and colored pencil from her lap and wrote in shivery letters: Miriam Elizabeth Murray.  She then handed me the pencil and paper and I wrote: Simone Maureen Williams.  She smiled.

     We sat in silence for a few moments until she tapped me again and put her pointer finger to her chin.  Again, to explain, she took the paper and wrote, “What do you miss?”

     I was startled by her ability to know that I was missing something.  I could have been crying for a million different reasons.  I responded by writing, “My mother.  She can’t be with me for Christmas.”  She nodded empathically.  Then I asked, “What do you miss?”

     She took the pencil and paper, and wrote several words down.  I could see she was making a list, one word per line.  She was smiling again as she wrote.  When she finished, she tore the piece of paper out and handed it to me.  It looked like this:

 

Ocean.

Bicycle.

Baby.

Kite.

Friend.

 

     As I held the little list in my hand, she signed the words.  She was a thin silhouette against the scintillating tree, and her arms moved like spindly waves, caressing illusionary waters.  Then, she pedaled a bike slowly, closing her eyes and assuming a childlike look of exuberance.  She tenderly cradled an invisible child with a loving gaze, and looked up to the ceiling and tugged an imaginary rope.  Her language was beautifully emotional, like silent poetry.  For the last word, though, she didn’t sign anything.  She simply smiled at me again, a little questioning glimmer in her brown eyes. 

     “Friend,” I said softly, and she nodded.

-Simone

 

December 25

 

     This morning, Grandpa and I made a feast for breakfast.  I cooked the scrambled eggs, and buttered wheat toast with the crusts cut off.  Then I poured us each a glass of orange juice, egg nog, and hot chocolate with six jumbo marshmallows in each mug.  Grandpa fried bacon and sausage links, but there was way too much oil in the pan, as usual.  I didn’t bother warning him this year.  But we had to open the windows, and the smoke detectors went off.  I guess Grandpa figures I can’t hear him swearing in the midst of the sizzling and the screaming alarms, but I can.  I did my best to fan the smoke outside through the windows, but finally I just flung the front door open, letting the snow inside.  I was                                                              

standing there in my pajamas, freezing and smiling.  I looked at Grandpa and he stopped swearing and stared back at me for a moment.  Then, he started laughing . . . really laughing.  He dropped the spatula and sat down, right on the floor, and laughed until he had tears in his eyes.  I’ve never seen Grandpa laugh so hard or look so free.  I was shivering but I laughed, too, eyeing the chunky snowflakes as they skidded across the floor.  I felt joy surging through my heart. 

     I went to sit down next to Grandpa, and I laughed about our silly traditions, and about how stubborn he could be.  I laughed because I was so happy, and so grateful for him and the other people in my life who fueled that happiness.  When I closed my eyes and wiped away tears, I thought of Mr. Gordon and the beautiful woman in the photo, who was happy because she had found the kind of joy that is personal and present.  I thought about Grandma, too, and how much she loved Grandpa.  I even thought about Scout and Atticus and Jem and Boo Radley.  Finally I stopped laughing, and tried to breathe, thinking of Miriam Elizabeth Murray and how she had called me a friend, and how she possessed her own beautiful happiness even when she couldn’t hear anything but silence, like thick snow.  She could communicate beauty in a unique, genuine way; she was alive with a persevering joy.  I laughed once more at myself, because I realized that kind of joy could be mine, too.

-Simone