MY CiRANDMA
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wipes
at her face. "She's so much trouble for you." She pushes a
straggling hairlock back from her forehead. "I can't just put her in a
home, though."
"I know."
"Do you think we should put her in a home?" Mother is trying
a different smile each time she speaks.
"I don't know. You'll have to decide." Father pulls his body
to the edge of the chair. "She doesn't need much. She'll die. And
there's not much they could do for her we can't. She doesn't need
much at all.
If
you want to keep her here, we'll keep her."
"Do you want her out of the house?"
"No."
Mother chews.
"Go lay down and rest. You need it."
Mother goes. She's shaped much like Grandma, poached belly
and thin arms and legs, but Mother is smoother
all
over, more
rounded, without the slags of Grandma. Father lights a cigarette
and plays with the smoke.
I shove my legs out and sag down
in
my chair. "Grandpa was
quiet when he died."
"Yes, he was." Father is softer than I've heard Father before.
"She doesn't have much to live for, does she?"
"I don't know. You would have to ask her."
"Why was Grandpa so brave?"
"You want to know why she isn't."
"Yes."
"I don't know."
"Don't you think about it?"
"Yes."
"What do you think?"
"I can't say. I could say sometimes I think she doesn't want to
die,
but that doesn't take much thinking."
"She doesn't want to be pretty."
"I suppose not."
"Why?"
"I don't know that, either."
"If
she doesn't want
to
be pretty, why does Mother try to make
her want it?"
"She thinks it will make her happier."
