Epic poem: Getting to Know Her

Getting to Know Her

 

I remember all those times that we didn't go to see her because she was too eccentric; too far away.

I remember hating the drive; the nauseating twist and turn of the ribbon-thin road and her kisses  we fled upon arrival: squeeze us tight sloppy-wet all-over-your-face kisses we pushed away.

I remember she smelled like mothballs and dust of raggedy old wool sweaters collected over decades of adventures abroad, stained with residue from, litters of puppies and parrots, Arab horses, llamas, donkeys, and three massive Mastiffs.

I remember we would sit and watch television in the house avoiding her and sunshine as she tried to ge to know us, or asked for help with the zoo.

I remember being annoyed, all the advice she tried to give: letters, newspaper clips and phone calls once a week, how following mom's lead, we never really listened, and we rationalized being mean. 

I remember how a phone call changed it all halfway through my junior year; one about the cancer; she had less than a year.

I remember being told leaving school early was a bad idea but I didn't care; I hated it anyways and my grandma needed me there; she needed someone to show they cared.

I remember 2008, the year I graduated high school on the last day of my sixteenth year, callousness and apathy I’d shown, now a double headed serpent, knot in the gut of a guilty girl.

I remember how proud she was, happy because I finally listened without resistance, following her advice For those last two classes online the first time I ever lived away from home.

I remember hating that word, terminal, and Grandpa for causing this, when she let me take care of her those three months, before she got too bad.

I remember the story: a Psychiatric Ward, radon rod administered by force, being told he had a husband’s right to put her there, accused of insanity but all she wanted was America with her girls.

I remember a hospital room, her frail bony frame on the bed; shadow of the buxom woman she'd once been and how I could trace with my eyes, every feeble vein through her papery skin.

I remember not sleeping, in a chair by her side, running on hospital coffee because I couldn't stand the thought of her being alone when she died, the way she'd lived most of her life.

I remember when they came to visit; watching them cry, I did not; they didn't have the right to condemn her just yet, smothering her; wounding her pride.

 I remember how we silenced them when they debated her ability, to reason and think, like just because  she had cancer she was some kind of vegetable, and how it angered me.

I remember the chemo took a lot but never that; she held fast to a wit filled fighting spirit questioned on what she thought of the president, I knew what her reply would be.

I remember her scoff at the taste of Bush's name in her mouth, Arabian sandstorm that it had become and on her lips that split like the driest creek’s sunbaked crust; she needed spit to speak.

 I remember savoring a smirk of pride as I watched while she crowed her complaints; outspoken woman that I loved who made horses danced in Spain and dared to win desert races against royal men.

I remember the first time she asked me to help her dress; how her pride was wounded by the weakness she showed.

I remember the news, political debates mingled with calls, selling the animals she loved, how it broke my heart to see her watch them disappear, sold off one by one, and the hill grew barren.

I remember the day her favorite horse was hauled away; how I wanted her to come back to a shining clean home and a warm meal if she was willing and able to eat that day.

I remember how I cleaned until the brown-grey cabinets turned white, her startled look when she came home, and the smile that lit up her eyes.

I remember as she smelled the pasta, how she sat down next to me, took my hand, and kissed it saying Simply, “thanks,” cherished moment shared where I pointed to my cheek.

I remember telling her, “That kiss belongs here.” and, “I’m sorry;” the hoarseness of her voice laughing, “are you sure!?” and waving away my apology; nodding my consent, I needed that moment.

I remember, that was the last week up there, until that place killed her, negligent nursing home where I couldn't stay and watch her like before; still, she never complained.

I remember it was August when her decision was made firm that I move back "home" to start college in  the fall and how adamant she was that do as she wished.

I remember the bike trip across town when I had long enough breaks and how by then, she’d just smile and mouth my name.

 I remember it only took a month there before voice was put to sleep so I'd tell her about me; all   the things she’d asked about before, when I was mean.

 I remember remembering as I left the last time, stories some said weren’t true, ones they verified, stories that I longed for in the last months of Grandma Helen’s, fantastic and all too short life.

Two months in prison and then she was gone.

 I remember how honored I felt as I wrote her eulogy but at the funeral when I got up there to read, that I could only manage the first few lines when my eyes began to water and, for the first time, I cried.

I remember despite all the things I had written on the pages in my hand, all I could think was that it still  wasn't enough and wanting so badly just to hear her voice telling another story.

I remember instead, angry at the interference of my tears, my aunt's soothing voice repeating that mantra they all do, “it’s okay to cry; let it out; It's good for you.”

I remember her tracing my gaze and saying it wasn't my responsibility; looking over at mom in the pew, I  knew I couldn't heal her heart; mine had barely survived the guilt of my own serpent strikes.

I remember reading pages through the tears; how I hated hearing, “lovely speech”; my words, still not enough; the details were too fuzzy; I couldn't get them right.

I remember, she used to say, "Honey, I’m so tired I don't remember now," her way of gently brushing off my pleas for more before she'd drift off to sleep, lost in a sea of coveted memories.

I remember stories brushed off by the world as unimportant; front-page highlights; stories of her life.

I remember her hating that label, insane, which, perhaps she feared one day I’d name as her girls had done yet, I never could, even back then, when I was no more than a mean little kid.