|
I am growing up but
not out of my grandmother's bed. As a small child, I breathe with difficulty and in the middle of
the night the utter silence in the room wakens my grandmother. She is attuned to the absence of my breath.
Has the gentle rhythm of the good nights kept her in wait, in
readiness, kept her from sound sleeps as surely as the arrested rhythms,
the low singing wheeze, the quick movement of my body turning toward
her?
I
have my own room. But in the middle of the night each night for
years and years I get up without 'wakening and walk the dark hallway
to my grandmother's bed and slide in beside her. In the dark, I see pictures
on every wall. My grandmother
and I story-tell. We are the
only two people in this world maybe.
Maybe not, but how could you know for sure in the dark when everyone
else has disappeared? My grandmother and I invented worlds for each
other. A million games and I'll
tell you one:
For over a year when a comet was circling the earth, my grandmother would become a woman who flew
down from the comet to enter her body and answer questions and tell
stories. The character had a
secret name. like an imaginary friend. We had signals if I wanted out
of the game, and a quick clap would bring my grandmother back into the
room. And when she returned to me I would sit in
my grandmother's lap and tell
her all about the visit and what the traveller had said that night.
And my grandmother would ask what it was like to, say, fly on the comet
and I would answer her. And my stories weren't always the same as the
one's I'd been told - which is just as well...
Evenings are intimate, and we sometimes sing in low low voices
because we are so close together in this bed… this comet...this ship...this
caravan... My arm stretched
across my grandmother's body as we slept/flew/sailed/jostled/soared. My lips to her ear and I'm whispering a magic spell. Or we're
staring at stars and bicycles and
I'm holding her hands.
|