My grandmother said she was sorry to hear I was sad. But she was smiling, and she didn't stop eating when she said it. Because she was dead, this was the first time she'd eaten since before the funeral.
"I don't think you're sad at all," I said
(more). I sat beside her, watching her against the backdrop of this half-forgotten yet familiar environment. How did we get back here, of all places? The house of my childhood has been sold several times over. I live in a different part of the country. How did they find for us this room, these dim earth-tones of that clean, old house? Taupe linen napkins on a table set for supper. Orange shag carpet, kept scrupulously vacuumed, and creaky brown leatherette chairs. The chandelier above us burned with a soft whispering light, like a lullaby.
"Well, I do find it hard to be sad!" she said, laughing and looking at me as she bit into a dinner roll. I looked back, owing her that much. I was hungry for her face but I didn't like it when she looked at me. It was her face, but she was too young. I wouldn't have known her, not yet. And her eyes were different. I had suspected it would be difficult for them to do anything about the eyes. This evening my grandmother's eyes looked like stickers, and the colours didn't match, and they were too small. I felt that anything she saw from behind those make-do eyes must be distorted. Did she know who I was? Did it matter to her? Did she know what I had gone through to see her again, and how I couldn't even enjoy it, already knowing how the loneliness was waiting to seep back in like a marsh tide.
(less)
