With Hands Worn from Endless

My Name

With hands worn from endless

cultivating of plump vegetables

and berries in the garden out back—

handsthat clearly convey signs

of countless years of fidelity

and obedience to my husband—

withthese hands Ivehemently

embrace Arthur's lifeless figure

lying motionless on the overpowering

hospital bed like the shed skin of a

spring locust attached delicately to

the branch of a towering oak tree

waiting to be captured by the currents

of the east wind. My body convulses

quietly. Tears of sadness and relief

escape the ducts that had been courageously

sealed while the eyes painfully

watched him suffer.

II.

"Your eyes are much bigger than

your stomach!" Grandma unceasingly

reported after keenly observing the remains of

still-warm, cinnamon-topped, sweet

potato pie crust lying indiscriminately

off the side of my saucer—melted vanilla

ice cream trickling rhythmically onto the

kitchen table. J remember a gentle pat on my

behind as I lazily excused myself.

The task of clearing the table was at hand.

Dishes cleaned. Floor swept. Scraps set outside.

The weekly struggle for the 'funny papers'

commenced right on schedule. We fought

like stray cats scrambling over who receives the

first share of trash. I, often the first to retire from

such play, sleepily rubbed my eyes-a cue to

Grandma that the bed was calling.

Stripped down to nothing but my beige, once white,

T-shirt and Tuesday panties, although we always

visited Grandma on Fridays, I grabbed Snoopy

and created a deep burrow inside the hand-woven quilt

once folded tidily at the end of grandma's bed.

III.

I recollect the many times

when he and I would welcome

our grandchildren into our pleasant,

yet quaint home. Josie was always

the first to enter the kitchen,

arms stretched wide to embrace Arthur

and me after not seeing us for no more

than a week. Duane, the second oldest

child of Number Three, would carelessly peck

us on the cheek and pass me, devoting all

of his attention to the ballplayers on

television. Yes, he was a growing

young man eager to become a basketball

player and to eat up all the fried chicken

on my old nineteen-seventy-eight stove!

Ahhh, yes. Now, there was always Esha; eyes

gleaming and a smile as bright as the

crescent moon in the evening. She insisted on climbing

trees, playing with the rowdy dogs out back, and

sitting rather unladylike at the table. Unlike

her sister, Arthur and I agreed, she was

an awkward girl often possessing the characteristics

of a young boy. Needless to say, she was more

apt to wrestle and rough house with

Duane than Josie, a young woman taught the

importance of etiquette by yours truly.

IV.

The smooth terrain of the paved city highway

transforms quickly as I feel the jagged, rough

gravel crush explosively underneath the tires.

Relocated to a home settled deep into suburbia

like an old pair of torn blue jeans donated to

the goodwill, my grandmother, all five feet and six

inches of her, lies placidly, protected by

one of her very few possessions: an old tattered,

white, cotton blanket from 1419 East Lane Street.

For eighty-six years God has blessed her to live.

But the latter of those years have been seized by

Alzheimer's disease. Middle-aged, grown men in her

mind are still ten and eleven year olds. My father,

Number Three, is forty-six but would be unfamiliar

to Mama Nobi, remembering him only as a child.

A twenty-inch television, three or four sets of clothes,

Snoopy, and a dusty, half-century old, white King James

version of the Bible are her only belongings.

I gaze around her square, claustrophobic

cubicle and I am overwhelmed with memories of

howher life used to be. Privacy is not a necessity

at Rosehaven. Gardening, a task Grandma thoroughly

enjoyed, is simply out of the question.

The tenants recline restfully in their rooms

periodically escaping it to a larger, still-

enclosedcubicle in which Bob Barker's voice

can be distinctly heard. Vegetables.

Senile is how they would venture to characterize my state.

Forgetful and incompetent are other words I hear them say.

I lie here looking inquisitively at this young girl sitting

at the edge of my bed. "Who is she?" I wonder.

Her smile is very familiar. The voice

although a bit more refined and confident reminds me

of a granddaughter I once had. What happened to her?

What was her name?

And this woman calls me "Grandma," yet I do not remember

her. She looks upon me with eyes full of wonder and

her touch is so sincere.

As she speaks to me, I think. I think of Arthur. I think of

how he sacrificed his life to ensure my good health.

I remember. I remember well.

My love for him was great.

I prayed that God would care for him. But lately

I have forgotten. I have forgotten a great deal.

Once I remember I have forgotten, I forget I have forgotten.

It is all very confusing and the days go by so quickly.

I have no memories of them.

My name is Zenobia High.