Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login


     Grandma is dead.  She's dead, and I do not know what I am supposed to feel.  Certainly, I should feel sad, right?  I should be crushed by grief, and go through all the stages, and have group therapy and cry until I think I'm sane enough to go back to a semblance of living.  Or should I be indifferent?  I haven't known her that well, her living in Illinois and myself being a ten hour drive away.  She was the fragile hug and musty-smelling house for a week and a half in May, after school got out.  She was an observer as we cleaned the fish we'd caught in the cow pond down the way, marveling at the sunnies that dwarfed my father's hand.

     She was the stories of ancient times, when a woman could only be a teacher or a nurse; she was "Take two aspirin and sit on the pot".  She was the relic of the past I was awed by as a child, and a living history I wanted to record when I was old enough to understand the worth of a memory, but never got the chance to – never really tried to – communicate.

     Grandma was at once as close as blood and as far as an elderly heartbeat, faintly beating, slow and long and weak, the undertones of a choir, coasted over by the frantic music of youth.  I wanted to sit next to her, in the tired sitting room, with the crunchy, plastic-covered couch and the faded toys of my father's childhood.  To stroke the beginning of a intricately crocheted lace doily that would never be finished, because Grandma had a stroke and lost her sight.  I wanted the potential of a three-generation relationship back; the ideas and the bridges and the disconnect; the distant glimmer of a time where pride was not arrogance.

     I am at a loss.  My last hope of an elegant, terrifying age is gone; the link to a past I'm not sure existed is gone.  A shaky memoir of a time that is disregarded and spit on, that no one cares to want to remember.

     But I am selfish.  Grandma doesn't have to bear up under the crushing weight of every summer memory, every war report, every tired soldier coming home, every wound that was too terrible to mention.  She shed all the chains, broken from her fetters, and finally took off, six years after a silent drake forged his way across a pale morning sky.  She finally caught up, and lives at his side once more.  She knew in part, but now she knows the whole story.

     It's funny, how I never knew how to feel when I lounged uncomfortably in the dry, cramped house surrounded by mature trees that knew their place.  I don't cry, I don't weep, wail, or mourn.  Only, when a phrase or a picture, song, gesture, a pair of held hands that stroll down the park way, bourne by the leisure of old age, then my heart is tickled into coughing out some of those bottled tears, only it's a bottomless pool, broken glass and all, and it takes time for the tsunami to be calmed by the arbitrator of cool and common sense.

     As time passes and the pictures fade into a half-remembered uneasiness, I'm sure I'll forget how to understand and communicate my grief and sorrow; how to love with respect, and how to catch the fish with grasshoppers, and to keep the curious steers at bay with a hefty chunk of firewood; to jump over the electric fence and how to tell when the corn is ready to pick; to listen to eighty-eight-year-old fingers play over eighty-eight keys that aren't sure if they want to associate black with white; to enjoy not having society at your beck and call, and your friends a send button away; to watch the life of a hundred years ago pass by unhurriedly, with no doubt that it will get there when it gets there; to live without a care to worry around the yard like a dog with a dish of reject food.  To live with dignity, and be unafraid of an awfully big adventure.  To love and let go, to keep and preserve; to remember, to cherish, and to know that in God we trust.

     Unless...

     Unless you and I come to an agreement, and you remind me when I fall, and I'll give you a hand up out of the dust.

     That way, we'll have each other, and more than just memories or a passing fancy.

     Because that way, Grandma, Grandpa, and God can look down and be proud.
A WIP I've had laying around for a while. I guess I just wasn't quite up to touching it again, after I wrote it. It sort of came out of a raw part of myself, and I wanted to give it a chance to heal.

Anyhow...

1) How does this seem to flow? What rough spots are there?
2) Any suggestions on which parts to rework?
3) Which title fits/works best? Do either of them?
4) There are some VERY long sentences. Do they work all right that way, or would they be better broken up?
5) Does the ending work?
6) Your favorite part/line?

TWR Review: [link]

Thanks!
Add a Comment:
 
:iconmonstroooo:
monstroooo Featured By Owner Nov 6, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
This is wonderful - sincere, introspective, considered and extremely well written.

a living history I wanted to record when I was old enough to understand the worth of a memory, but never got the chance to – never really tried to – communicate.

Truth, and my favourite line. My favourite line for quite a while, actually.
Reply
:icontyrison:
Tyrison Featured By Owner Nov 9, 2012  Student Writer
Thank you muchly; it means a lot to know you enjoyed this piece. =)
Reply
:iconmonstroooo:
monstroooo Featured By Owner Nov 6, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
... and I'm sorry for your loss :hug:
Reply
:icontyrison:
Tyrison Featured By Owner Nov 9, 2012  Student Writer
Oh, and thank you for this, too. It was hard...she was my last grandparent, so I felt more deeply the loss of all the history she carried. Ah well. Someday. :)
Reply
:iconmonstroooo:
monstroooo Featured By Owner Nov 10, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
What a shame :( I was never very in touch with my grandparents, and I also felt like I'd missed an opportunity when they'd passed. I guess it takes a big thing like that to make you stop and think about who they are - otherwise they're just part of the furniture. If you know what I mean.

:huggle:
Reply
:icontyrison:
Tyrison Featured By Owner Nov 10, 2012  Student Writer
I totally get what you mean. It's really good for fixing your perspective - if only it didn't end up costing so much.
Reply
:iconmonstroooo:
monstroooo Featured By Owner Nov 11, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Absolutely :(

It's true what they say - some lesson you just have to learn for yourself.
Reply
:icontyrison:
Tyrison Featured By Owner Nov 12, 2012  Student Writer
Very true. =)
Reply
:icondailylitdeviations:
DailyLitDeviations Featured By Owner Nov 5, 2012
Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DailyLitDeviations in a news article that can be found here [link]
Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by :+fav:ing the News Article.
Reply
:icontyrison:
Tyrison Featured By Owner Nov 9, 2012  Student Writer
Thank you so much for the feature! ^^
Reply
:iconemo-black-cat:
emo-black-cat Featured By Owner Oct 20, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
this is beautiful in all that it is. my favorite line is "listen to eighty-eight-year-old fingers play over eighty-eight keys that aren't sure if they want to associate black with white". i just love the connotation of racial separation compared with music (which also reminds me of the taboo on jazz music, involving many black keys, though i'm not sure if that's what you meant). i think the long lines work simply because of the poetic flow to the piece. as soon as you learn the rules of the art, you must learn how to break them.
bravo!
Reply
:icontyrison:
Tyrison Featured By Owner Oct 21, 2012  Student Writer
I'm glad you liked it. I suppose that was the one part I wasn't sure people would accept, because it was a tense time of history when the ugliness inside people came out. :P

Good point. :P I'm taking a creative writing class right now, and I do enjoy learning about literary fiction, but it's so narrow...there really isn't any freedom except to pick the subject matter. It's really too bad...ah well.

Thank you! The review means a lot to me. ^^
Reply
:iconemo-black-cat:
emo-black-cat Featured By Owner Oct 22, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
to be honest, most of the best literature i've seen was not by writers afraid of controversy. keep with it. don't force it - but if your mind says to offend, then offend. art should comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable, right?
Reply
:icontyrison:
Tyrison Featured By Owner Oct 22, 2012  Student Writer
I like that line...it rings true. =) Thanks for the input; I really appreciate it.
Reply
Add a Comment:
 
×

:icontyrison: More from Tyrison


Featured in Collections

Prose by 91816119

Great Prose and Poetry by leyghan

Prose DLR Features by doodlerTM


More from DeviantArt



Details

Submitted on
October 16, 2012
File Size
4.7 KB
Link
Thumb

Stats

Views
775
Favourites
7 (who?)
Comments
14
×