Moments with Grandma

[I composed this several years ago, when Grandma was still living. I ran across it today, while looking for something else, and thought I'd post it here.]

“You are—?” She leans toward me, apologetic. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a stroke and can’t remember things.” She has dementia, actually. Unfortunately, she kind of knows this.

 “That’s okay, Grandma,” I say brightly, “I don’t mind telling you. I’m Elena. Your daughter Susan is my mom.”

“Elena?” testing the word, she finds it a little difficult.

I try to catch her slipping memory. “My sister and I live up north.” (That’s how she thinks of Chicago.)

“Ah!” her face brightens. “You’re the one who sings!”

“No,” I say, trying to act like this struggle for identity is a part of all interesting and polite conversations. “That’s my sister. I play the violin.”

“That’s right.” She is happy now. For the moment, we are both found.

“Elena,” uncertain jubilation brightens her voice. She thinks she has remembered, but isn’t sure.

“That’s right, Grandma!”

* * *

I’m visiting Grandma in her home—the farm house where my mom, and Grandpa before her, grew up. A striking city girl from Wisconsin, Grandma moved here in the early years of her marriage. I’ll sit with her a few hours while my aunt, Grandma’s primary caregiver, does chores.

 “Can you stay a while?” she asks me.

“Oh, yes,” I reply. “I came to visit for the morning. If that’s all right with you?” Never mind that she can’t be alone, so I must stay.

“Hmmm,” she pulls a long face, denim-blue eyes glinting. “I’ll have to think about that one.” We laugh.

* * *

Grandma has enjoyed a family dinner at my mom’s house. Now I walk her back to the car where another family member will ferry her back home. I swing open the passenger door with my best chauffeur imitation: “Your car, Madam.”

She pretends to be staggered by my joking gallantry, catching the car’s frame for support. “Boy. Good thing there was something there.”

Finally seated, she reaches out and finds the arm of the door. Before pulling it closed (shutting the door herself is one of her last—and fiercely defended—bastions of independence), she looks up at me. “Thank you, ma’am,” she says, playing along with my charade.

As I turn back toward the house an almost forgotten memory reasserts itself—two little girls at bedtime making Grandma laugh and laugh so no one can say goodnight. It is a warm image, full of yellow lamplight on old wallpaper.