Grandma's Love

Libby Dulski
9/29/16
Memoir

Grandma’s Love

I sit in the same rickety, metal rocking chair that I have sat in since infancy, only now I can reach the table without kneeling. The pillow underneath me is hard and worn from years of resting in the rain, yet it is the hardest most-comfortable pillow in the world. The auburn brick underneath my bare feet cools my toes as I rock back and forth in the chair many years my elder. A familiar pattern of car horns signals the last few minutes of rush hour. The hot Midwest sun has yet to set, and the Chicago smog envelopes me in a thick blanket of moisture. Grandma stands on the opposite end of the brick patio. Her hair is cut short in her signature pixie cut, and it is the same dark brown with tints of red like mine. However, her hair is tinged with large bouts of gray. She wears bracelets up to her elbow and a long gray tunic over bright pink capris. Thousands of glittery treasures reflect in the evening sun from Grandma’s wrist: For years I have watched her gently remove them one by one before going to bed.

Grandma picks different greens from her impressive garden. She gathers handfuls of spinach, kale, and arugula and deposits them into a big blue strainer. She moves slowly back towards the screen door into the kitchen. I swear, she does not walk, she glides. The sound of water hitting the blue strainer makes my stomach grumble. I have offered to help with dinner at least twenty-five times. She very rarely accepts my help unless it involves shucking corn; a task that she despises. The thwack of a sharp knife against a cutting board startles me. Glancing into the kitchen, I can see bright red and yellow cherry tomatoes falling into the dark purple ceramic salad bowl. A shrill beep signals that the salmon in the oven is ready.

I grab a can of pop from the fridge, several months expired as always, and pour the semi-fizzing liquid over a hefty helping of banana shaped ice cubes. Somehow, Grandma’s expired pop always tastes better than regular pop. The porch table is set with a place for Grandma and me. Bright neon green placemats that are adorned with cherry red swirls cast reflections on our white paper plates. Grandma brings out a single candle and places it in the middle of the mesh-metal table. My youngest cousin Derek demanded years ago that at dinner we have “mood lighting,” and, somehow, it became a tradition; now at every meal we have to have at least one candle lit. The Midwest humidity is lifting, and a slight breeze picks up the steam from the salmon and brings it straight to my nose. The mixed salad is perfect; it has a drizzle of honey mustard vinaigrette dressing which lingers on my tongue as I take a bite of the baked salmon. The slight taste of lemon in the salmon goes wonderfully with the simple salad. Grandma turns on the stereo. Beethoven’s 5^th symphony rolls out of speakers that surround the patio: I will only ever listen to classical music willingly when I am with Grandma. I smile as I take another bite of salmon, remembering Grandma’s favorite joke: What’s Beethoven’s favorite type of fruit? Ban-an-an-aaaaaaa.

Like a Midwest tornado, plates are cleared, dishes are washed, coffee is brewed, and desert is served in a quick furry. Grandma and I have moved into the living room. In the winter a gentle fire would be burning, and the smell of pine candles would fill the house. However, it’s July and for now the air conditioning is set to 68 and my decaf coffee sits on a van Gogh coaster on the marble table as I balance a plate (yes an entire plate) of pecan squares in my lap. My Grandma’s pecan squares are the best goddamn sweet in the world. Her secret is to add a layer of Hershey’s dark chocolate bars on the top of the pecan squares. The squares are slightly undercooked; in other words, the bars are perfect. As I bite into the square, the squishy middle mixes with the crust and dark chocolate. I follow this with my syrupy coffee; wow, it is a heavenly combination.

Beyond full and with a chocolate buzz, I head upstairs to my room. The door to the guest room actually has a sign that says “Libby’s Room.” I claimed it when I started visiting more often when I was 14 years old. After my Grandfather died, it seemed awful to have just one person living in a home; it is just not home if there is only one person. The guest room is simple; it has a queen size bed and a small TV on a plain white vanity. The room is decorated with my own artwork and my many cousins’ artworks. I am the eldest grandchild, and Grandma might have a slight bias towards me because of that.

I climb into bed and await Grandma. Yes, I am technically a legal adult, but that does not mean that I cannot enjoy being babied. She enters the guest room with a slight knock, not waiting for me to say come in. She floats into the room with a tall thin ceramic mug filled with steaming milk. She hands it to me silently, her thousands of bracelets jingle lightly; a symphony that I enjoy even more than Beethoven’s. I sip the frothy whole milk, there is no skim milk in this household: I think that the whole milk makes it taste even more magical and lovely. I slide deeper under the covers as Grandma tells me how happy she is that I am here. She shuts off the lights as I take a final sip of my warm milk. I close my eyes; the milk is tickling my stomach and lulling me to sleep. This is what it feels like to be loved.