There are pieces of the past I keep on her behalf. I tie my hair in a bun and start humming a song while I concentrate on lining my lips. The kids are asleep, the dishwasher is working, the counter is wiped, the door is locked. I am getting ready to talk to my grandmother over Zoom. Preparing to reconnect. I haven’t seen her in a while. When I think of her, I remember the cigarette smell, the afternoons sitting on her lap while she watches T.V., the feeling of her long, red nails running gently through my back, up and down. I remember her evening routine.
After cleaning dishes, she would wear her long pajamas, wash her face, and put cold cream on her face and neck. Preparing to sleep. Once she was ready for bed, she would begin her walk through the house, ensuring each door and each window was locked and turning off every light while mumbling prayers. I would pace quickly behind her, sometimes sprinting forward with my little legs to get ahead so I could look at her face. I would ask her questions, what are you doing? What are you saying? Mom, where are you going? Sometimes I called her mom.
She never stopped or returned so much as a look. It was as if I was not there, as if she were alone. I realize now that this was her space, a little nook of time she kept for herself. It was the only moment of the day when she was not cooking, cleaning, clearing tables, taking care of me and abuelo, or watching T.V. –she watched a lot of T.V. It was her quiet, almost private moment every night, when all that was left to do was to make sure the house was secured. So, she did, walking and mumbling; her prayers tied together, one after the other, in a long string of whispers. Nobody could intrude this moment.
Eventually, I stopped following her around at night. I also stopped staying over. In time, I stopped visiting altogether. To this day, I wonder how long she kept her nightly ritual. Did she stop after abuelo died? Did she gradually forget to lock the doors and windows as her memories started to blend together in an unrecognizable medley? Who checks the locks and lights now? Who says the prayers?
I turn on the laptop’s camera so we can see each other’s faces. My mother helps my grandmother log in on the other side. She’s hard of hearing and she doesn’t remember me most times, but I don’t have expectations that she will. If my name rings any bells, the image that probably comes to mind is that of the little girl who chased her around, touching the locks after she had passed the key. This is not my face anymore, so I understand when she says that I look so different. I say hello and I know I have to explain it all again: that I’m in Canada now, that I got married, that I have two children. She looks at me confused and I am prepared for that.
“Who is she?” grandmother asks, pointing at the screen on the phone.
“She’s your grand-daughter,” my mother answers, while holding the phone.
“No, who is she?” grandmother asks again.
There’s a brief silence and my mother replies with a quiver in her voice:
“That’s you, mom.”
“That’s impossible,” grandmother replies.
Some things we’re not prepared for.
Image: Laptop screen reflecting on a blank wall from Pixabay.com
literally stories 
Hi Natalia,
AAaaaaaaaaarrrrrgggghhhh!!
The only time I get a good idea for a title for a story it ain’t mine!!
This could be ‘Reflection’!!
We have had loads of this ilk that have been refused, so many congratulations on getting it through! I can’t say that I’ve read one about a mistaken realisation about a reflection.
See – It would work!!
I really did enjoy this.
Hugh
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Hello Hugh,
What an incredible suggestion for a title. I really struggled naming this story: it’s saved under at least 4 possible titles in my computer. I do think Reflection would have hit the spot.
Thank you for your comment,
Natalia
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Natalia
So simple and eloquent. Mirrors, screens even the reflection off coffee really ought to learn how to tell a white lie. It would increase their popularity instead of seeing a dramatic plunge in the polls after fifty years or so in office.
Leila
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Hi Leila,
I think the premise of a phone that gives back the images of who we are in our minds is an excellent premise for a story.
Thank you for your kind words.
Natalia
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A beautiful and poignant piece with a killer final line – well done!
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I really appreciate your compliments, Steven. Thank you.
Natalia
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as Hugh has already said we have an enormous number of stories about dementia but this one stood out among them I think mainly because of the tone. It is sad, of course, but accepting and beautifully portrayed. The image of the grandmother with the child following her around the sleeping house is so very visible. Lovely stuff. Thank you. Diane
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Thank you so much, Diane.
I’m glad you enjoyed it.
Natalia
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A thoughtful look at the heartbreaking ravages of time and dementia. The passage concluding with “…as her memories started to blend together in an unrecognizable medley…” is almost painfully poignant. I recall my own grandmother Opal, also “smelling of cigarettes” and watching a lot of TV, and going through a nightly ritual of checking locks and dabbing on cold cream, as if it were yesterday, though she passed a half century ago. The final lines of the story catch in one’s throat. Tremendously fine story. bill
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Hi Bill,
I’m happy to know my story brought back memories for you. Thank you for taking the time to write a comment.
Natalia
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Natalia,
This piece beautifully captures the poignant complexities of familial bonds, memory, and the passage of time. This touched me very much as I have lived it. Excellent writing!
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That’s very kind of you, Evan. Thank you.
N
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Natalia
I really admired this character-driven piece, which focuses on everyday details of life and the presentation of a single character, although the piece really includes at least two important characters, the narrator being one of them. This tale focuses on very human moments of vulnerability and time passing, without resorting to melodrama, car chases, gun battles, or other forms of action that too much modern story-telling in the world at large relies on today. This is a gracious and gentle tale that reminds the reader of moments in their own life, if they’re paying attention. The deceptively simple details and the focus on memory make for a vivid narrative. While being very specific and particular, you somehow also managed to capture the archetypal character known as “grandmother” too. Excellent work; thanks for writing this character-based piece about Proustian memory.
Dale
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I’m very flattered by your careful reading of my story. Thank you for sharing your impression.
N
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At the end of her life my grandmother got relatives confused. The last time I saw her, I scared her. My mother worried that would be her fate too, but she was in pretty good shape until the end. Editor and I wonder who will have to look after whom.
A sad reality well portrayed.
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Hi Doug,
I appreciate you sharing this. That fear your mother had is precisely the reason why I decided to name the story “heirloom”. We inherit habits and customs, and sometimes we also inherit ailments. It’s a part of life that can be difficult to come to grips with.
N
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This one hit me right between the eyes. The ending was delivered with uncanny skill.
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Hi Alex,
I’m happy you were moved by my story. Thank you for sharing your thoughts.
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Natalia
A lovely closing of the day for grandma. Sad of course, but in the way of things.
My grandma on my father’s side was passed around her children at the end. She’d tell me, “I want to die.” She used to take off on foot in Brooklyn looking for Mrs. O’Rourke who was in a graveyard somewhere in Leitrim.
Perhaps they had a nice conversation.
A gentle story beautifully told. Thanks. — Gerry
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Heart-breaking and well-handled. I’ve tried to write a story or two about dementia in my family, but have never been able to pull it off as well as this does.
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Very thought-provoking and moving. A tale of aging, decline, but also of advancement and change – not all of it good. Short and highly effective.
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Vivid portrait of the grandmother as seen through the narrator’s memories. The grandmother did not reveal anything personal about herself to the little girl, who has mostly the physical memories of being cared for. Everything else is mystery. The bit about the photos at the end is very chilling yet intriguing, how we change as the years go by, and what we remember of ourselves. Ironic that the grandmother does not remember herself as a little girl. I suspect most of her life was spent in ritual, in doing her duty.
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