FREED VERSE

only 1/3 of us remember this story

It was a bright morning, and I had slept over at my grandparents’ the night before. I don’t remember my age, but it was before they got the kitchen remodeled. The countertops weren’t yet granite and the cabinets’ hinges still screamed every time you hunted for a bag of chips. The windows over the sink were the same wide ones that overlooked my grandpa’s hummingbird feeders, though. The glare was piercing in the morning, but I sprinted to the kitchen anyways to watch the birds hover over the plastic feeders, ravenously drinking the crimson nectar. My grandpa had perfected his sugar water recipe, he told me, putting in just enough dye so the birds would be attracted to it from a distance without making them sick.

“Wouldn’t want to turn ‘em red, now, would I!” he chuckled in his slight Texan accent.

A small part of me knew, even then, that the hummingbirds would stay green. But I laughed along, entertaining the image of a scarlet-dyed bird flitting in front of the window. I imagined myself undergoing the same transformation every time I had a fruit punch Gatorade. I imagined it when I had my first taste of sangria, and I’ll probably imagine it when my hospice nurses hand me a paper cup of diluted cranberry juice.

I retired from my post at the window and sat at the table with the two of them. My grandma had her yogurt and too-sweet coffee while my grandpa poured himself a heaping bowl of his signature cereal: a tri-blend of Honey Bunches of Oats, Honey Nut Cheerios, and Raisin Bran that he mixed in a comically large mason jar every weekend. He cut up a banana, putting half in the cereal and giving me the other half to go along with my key-lime yogurt. My grandma and I had picked this one together the day before at Kroger’s: they were 10 for $10. She chose Boston Creme Pie and threw an assortment of the other flavors my wide eyes poured over into the cart. For once, she didn’t compare how many Weight Watchers points the cups of Yoplait had to make her decision. She just followed my gaze and picked up whatever I paused on the longest.

I peeled back the foil on my citrus-flavored breakfast and found the tiny spoons they kept around for me. I sat next to my grandma on the kitchen island and handed her a small utensil of her own when she threw her head back in laughter at my choice. Grandpa read the paper and she did the crossword. Her pencil quivered in her hands and she murmured the clues under her breath, determined not to let her eavesdropping husband interrupt her train of thought with the right answer. She let me cross off each hint as she filled in the squares. 

I miss those mornings. They loved each other so much. He rose with the sun, doing god knows what with the few solitary hours dawn afforded him. Regardless of what he was doing, he always made sure the coffee maker was ready for her when she woke up around 9. He diligently cut his fruit as she shuffled her way to the kitchen, offering the extra banana half to her while she grabbed a mug and grunted a groggy ‘thanks’ (I assume, anyways; he always gave it to me when I was there). They watched the news and didn’t talk about what was in the paper. They played games with the mail and reminded each other to take their meds. They filled out their calendars. I loved seeing my name on there:

“Alyssa Rae!”

shitty cursive and all. I was there. No plans, just the mark of a confident ballpoint. 

I strive to love as much as they loved me. To put people in my calendar and give without expecting anything in return. To let someone else take the satisfaction of crossing off my crossword hints. 

The last time I visited my grandparents in the nursing home, I was acutely aware that it would be the last time I saw them. Of course, I think this every time I see them, but it felt particularly true that night. I set down the cupcakes and nineteen candles my mom and I brought on their small, not-granite countertop and made a beeline for my grandparents’ bedroom while my mom pulled my grandma to the couch and helped her scrawl a celebratory message on a scrap of notebook paper for me.

The amount of effort it took for him to lift his neck and look vaguely in my direction made it seem like his head contained a kettlebell where there should have been a skull. He pretended to recognize me and said “Howdy!” through a strained grin. His eyes lacked the glimmer they used to have when he beamed with pride at his granddaughter, though. He didn’t know me. He thought me to be a total stranger that had broken into his bedroom, and all he could think to do was smile and say howdy.

I walked over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. I leaned down to hug him and felt his ribs against my chest, his cold skin next to mine.

Part of me wondered if this was how other people felt when they touched me. Me, the recovering anorexic, who had everything but still forced herself to suffer for the sake of suffering. Me, who everyone called beautiful and thin and lovely, who couldn’t trust the world and took it upon herself to defy it. Me, who was too busy thinking these selfish thoughts instead of loving the people that loved me most. Those that were now all too familiar with how my vertebrae felt against their embracing arms and could do nothing but watch as my bones inched closer to the surface of my drying skin.

I smiled and nodded along as he repeated where I could find a bottle of water and if I knew how the bathroom door locked. When his cracked lips had worn themselves out from being a broken record and he leaned back into the thin pillow, I made sure the cat my grandma insisted on keeping wasn’t dead, forgotten in the back of the closet, and returned to my birthday party.

My mom and grandma sang to me and presented me with the folded piece of notebook paper my grandma had just labored over. On it was written:

“Dear Alyssa, most beautiful lady and granddaughter–

We love you so much–

Happy Birthday!!

Love, Grandma and Grandpa! Kisses!”

Shitty cursive and all.