Abuela

My grandma is 76 years old. I think she’s beautiful. I like her curly grey hair and wrinkled smile. It doesn’t take much to make her laugh.

I spent the evening with her at the nursing home. About three weeks ago she fell and broke her leg. They had to place a rod in her leg. She is now in recovery. She is expected to be here for the next two months. And no, that has not been easy on my grandpa. I imagine it was a small blessing that I decided to live with them only a couple of days before my grandma’s accident.

I wheeled her down to the dining room for dinner. The carpet here is a musty brown. I watched my feet and traced my steps as I held the handles to her chair. The walls are cream. I passed a couple of wandering looks and faces from random rooms that line the hall. All the faces are so pale, but the majority wrinkled their noses and curved their mouths enough to give me a small grin. One woman stared right at me, and blurted, “Wow! You’re so tiny! You’re just petite now, aren’t you – and pretty too?” She glanced at me again and then just walked away. I barely remarked a “thank you!”

Grandma ate a type of enchilada casserole. A small pot of fake red flowers sat on the white tablecloth. A round stool and one chair were at the table. The walls were cream here too and the floor linoleum, practically the same musty brown as the carpet. The floor in grandma’s room is also linoleum.

Her meal was interrupted as she told me stories of her childhood and thanksgiving. I listened as she spoke of the sweet smells of food and family. Never had I listened so intently to my grandma. My mind swarmed a little with all the “should have’s” and “ I wishes” because I realized in that moment how I wanted to know grandma more – and how I want to have the same moment with one of my grandchildren. I felt as though I had entered an LDS commercial and someone was repeating, “Family. Isn’t it about time?” Sure, I was experiencing the utmost regret in mocking most of those commercials – and the fact that I always reject any such sentiment– but I seemed to be overwhelmed with the brutal reality of what “is.”

And what “is” is grandma sitting in a wheelchair with a rod in her leg. What “is” is someone having to help her go to the bathroom. What “is” is the noisy oxygen machine and the nose bleed it gave grandma. What “is” is the ugly floor and vacant feeling in the room. What “is” is that grandma is stuck here and I am not.

Family photos of a younger smiling grandma hang on the cream walls. Red and yellow roses sit in paper cups and glass vases. There is a little nightstand and clock from home. Grandchildren have colored with crayons on coloring book pictures and cut out paper fish or bumblebees. I scan every little

piece of what grandma sees each day. And then I look at grandma. She looks lovely in her pink shirt with her hair curled.

We take a picture together. Grandma wants to take off her glasses and look better for the picture. I tell her she looks wonderful. She laughs. And we chat a little while longer.