First 1/4 of my story:
My grandmother was like a lamp. Her very presence would warm a room and invite a person to sit on the green armchair next to her. When my grandmother was around it always meant time spent together, good conversation, and usually a cup of tea.
Once she passed away, it felt like her home would never see light again. Her living room had all of the love sucked out of it. The bedroom she once shared with her husband of fifty years shrunk until all that remained was the undone bed. She had a few tea bags left before she would have had to go to the store to replenish them. Her brush still held strands of her hair, she had dirty dishes in the sink. Her jewelry still held her fingerprints. But she had disappeared.
It happened on a Wednesday. She had gone to bed one night and never got up the next morning. My mother expected me to stay home the rest of the week from school. My grandmother and I were close, that was no secret.
She lived down the street from us, close enough where I could bike to her before I got my license. Her house still sits without her. Its gardens in the front are still in bloom, despite no one watering them for some time now. Yellow flowers. The house itself has mustard yellow siding that is peeling and screaming to be repainted. The house is so big and tall that no one ever took the time to do it. It’s been standing for a hundred years and has probably been repainted only a few times.
The house has two stories, but my grandmother only inhabited the first floor. Such a big space for such a small woman. Due to the size of the house, my grandmother would rarely get to give it a deep clean. There were many spaces in between things and up high that never got dusted. They were riddled with daddy-long-leg spiders who took the opportunity of a dark small space uncalled for. I never understood how she could live with so many creepy spiders inhabiting her home. The bathroom was the place they seemed to like the best. I couldn’t help but feel itchy after noticing them dangling over me while I washed my hands. I felt so vulnerable like they were going to drop on me.
I wondered how many more had spawned since we hadn’t gotten a chance to clean out the house yet. My mother was taking her time, after learning the house was left to me. It was a strange feeling to feel like my grandmother loved me more than her own daughter. I knew that wasn’t it, although I don’t think my mother is so sure. Still, the guilt sat with me. That’s how I feel when I bike past the house now. I see her yellow flowers and I feel guilt, and then all of a sudden I’m sitting in her living room on the green chair crocheting with her. She’s laughing (the show we are watching is funny), and she’s making a hat, while I’m working on a throw blanket.
“That’s coming along quite beautifully,” she would mention every twenty minutes or so in a different sort of way. I haven’t finished the blanket yet. I probably won’t.
Anyways, I didn’t stay home from school. There is only a week until we are out for the summer, and I didn’t want to fail anything. I didn’t feel like I needed to take time anyways, I only felt guilty after all, and that was no one’s fault but my own. Despite my mother’s growing resentment towards me, she followed close behind me like a small dog. I think she would climb into my backpack if she was small enough.
Each morning once she heard my alarm sound she would crack my door open, only one eye visible.
“Coffee?” she would say, before pushing the door open a crack more and presenting a steaming mug. Today, the mug is one I made when I was twelve. It’s uneven and warped, painted a barn-red.
“Thank you, mom.” My voice cracks and I sit up. This is her cue to walk in. Once she sets the mug on my side table, she steps back and smiles kindly.
“I’ve been thinking about a little trip we could take.” she says sweetly. I love my mother. She’s beautiful. Her hair is a soft red, her cheeks full of life. Today, she is wearing an emerald green wool sweater and linen pants. Unlike most redheads I am aware of, she doesn’t have freckles covering her face. Just a few tasteful specks on her nose, enough to highlight her blue eyes.
“What’s the trip?”
“It’s something I did a long time ago, maybe twenty years now. I thought maybe we could go on a canoeing trip together, once school gets out. Maybe that weekend right after?” Truthfully, the last place I want to be the first weekend of summer break is in a canoe. The more I contemplate it, the more I’m on board, though. Maybe this would mend the weird awkwardness between my mother and I. Maybe then she will want to clean out grandmother’s house.
“Okay, sure. Where?”
“Allagash stream. It’s really nice this time of year. Secluded, too; we might see some herons!”
My mother has always loved nature. She was unlike my grandmother that way, who would watch from the window as my grandfather puttered in the vegetable garden or fed the birds. My grandmother preferred books and a comfortable chair.
“That sounds nice,” I respond politely. My mother takes this as her cue to leave my room. Despite our conversation, she shuts the door harshley behind her. My guilt returns, and I reach to take my first sip of coffee.
→ THIS IS THE TURNING POINT