I.
I was prepared for you to not know me. I was prepared when I decided to come see you anyway. I was prepared when I packed my bag. I was prepared when I stepped on the airplane. I was prepared when they wheeled your tiny frame down the hall to me when I arrived at the center where you now live. I was prepared for you to not know my name. I was prepared.
I was not prepared.
I was not prepared to see the wariness behind your eyes when you looked at my face. The uncertantity I saw there that said, stranger. I was not prepared for the desperation that look in your eyes plunged me into. I was not prepared to long for you. I was not prepared to need you to know me.
Don’t you know me at all? Anything? Don’t you remember dancing with me in the kitchen? Don’t you remember the five different batches of fudge you used to make at Christmastime? Don’t you remember? Santa Fe? You and me and Grampa. Side by side by side in the pick up. Don’t you remember stacking telephone books up on the chair so I could sit with you at the dining room table? Don’t you remember the Statue of Liberty? I wanted to go to the top so badly. You and I walked up every step together and looked out the tiny windows in her crown. Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember putting the cherries in my drink so I felt special? Don’t you remember? Me and you. Don’t you?
I was not prepared.
II.
“I’m your granddaughter.”
Her face lit up in delight. “Well! I’ll be damned!” She squeezed my hand. “Thank you! Look at these flowers. Aren’t they pretty? I love the colors.”
“I’m your granddaughter.”
“Really? Well. I’ll be damned. Just look at this. Look at these flowers. I love the color.”
“I’m your granddaughter.”
“Really? Well. I’ll be damned. Thank you!”
“No, thank you! I’m your granddaughter. I’m Mariah.”
“Oh, I loved that one. Look. I kept this for her. Isn’t it a lovely piece? I just love the color.”
“I’m your granddaughter.”
Look of surprise. “Really? Well. I’ll be damned. Thank you! Look at these flowers. Aren’t they beautiful?”
“I’m your granddaughter.”
“Really?”
“I’m your granddaughter.”
“Really? I’ll be damned. Thank you!”
“That’s me in that picture. I’m her. I’m Mariah.”
“Oh, I always had fun with her. Will you look at this? Look at these flowers. I just love the color.”
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III.
“This is Max.” I pointed at Max’s beautiful little face on the page. “Here’s Harry. Harrison Roy. He’s named after Grampa.” For years I have been sending my grandparents photo albums of the little family Chris and I have made together. She touched the image of my face on the page. “And this is the mother.” She said softly to herself. Like she was looking at a laundry detergent advertisement in a magazine. “This one is the mother.”
She turned to the pages that featured her own face. Skeeter and Roy’s 90th birthday celebration. We celebrated my grandparents’ birthdays shortly before my grandfather passed away four years ago. It was a great big bash with dozens of friends and family from all over. A proper old fashioned party… At a fancy country club where my Grampa wore a brand new suit and there were white linens on all the tables. I tensed, unsure how she would react to what she saw. She turned the page and her fingers immediately found my grandfather’s face. “There’s the old boy.” She whispered. “There’s my lover.” She stroked his cheeks with delicate fingers. His eyes. His mouth. The line of his jaw. Tracing his features over and over again.
No one spoke.
Twin rivers of tears ran down both of our cheeks.
As we continued to flip through the pages of the book, one small image kept bringing her to the same spot again and again. We would get towards the last pages, and she would turn back to find it again. A small, black and white photo from their birthday party. The two of them on the dance floor, wrapped up in each others arms. Her fingertips gently touched the photo again and again. Silently caressing the small image of the intertwined couple. The only two on the dance floor.
IV
I packed the soft, brown mink stole. Annie Cravens. I never met Annie Cravens. I never met her, but her name is embroidered onto the velvet lining of my mink stole. The fur is thick and glossy, changing from a rich whisky to deep mahogany in the light. Chris bought it for me years ago from an estate sale. It’s one of those beautiful little things. One of those beautiful little things that women have. The beautiful little things that we all have, and keep safe in our bottom dresser drawers… but that are much too precious to ever actually wear. The fur is thick and lush when I run my fingers through it’s length. I threw it into my suitcase as I packed to visit my grandmother. I planned to photograph her, and I thought the stole might make her feel more glamorous in front of the camera. She was glamorous once, though it was many lifetimes ago. When she was a beauty queen with a houseful of servants and beautiful clothes. Before she left it all to be a cowboy’s bride. Before that chance meeting on a crowded San Fransisco street. Before she learned how to cook, and how to catch a trout, and how to saddle a horse. Before me. Before us. That was lifetimes before my lifetime. When she was mine, she was past glamorous. She was the soft edged, sparkle eyed confidence that comes from growing out of the need for glamour. She was barefoot and sun drenched. A laugh like tinkling bells. Covered in silver and turquoise. Spunky. Charming. All pink lipstick and whiskey at 5:00.
