We pulled into the gravel lot off of a narrow street. My grandparent’s Dodge Caravan made dust erupt from the ground and disseminate throughout the humid air. As soon as we pulled in their driveway, Uncle Bob and Aunt Sue stepped out on their tiny porch to greet us. My brother and I stomped out of the car with sullen faces - we would have much rather been horseback riding near the cabins we were staying in. Nonetheless, we put on our smiles and went to hug the relatives who we’d only met when we were “itty bitty”. Ofcourse, the usual exchange of “oh my how you’ve grown” and “you’re such a beautiful girl, isn’t she just a darling?” occurred as they welcomed us in their home. Uncle Bob was a strange man, with sparse grey and black wiry hair and old wrinkled skin. I soon remembered that he was the uncle without a pinky finger on his left hand. As a child, I would always ask him how he lost it. He would never comment on anything other than that it was an accident. Aunt Sue was a short, frail woman whose hands shook constantly. They invited us inside and we all walked through a dirty screen door. Inside their tiny house, I immediately noticed it smelled like old people. There’s no other words to describe the stench than musty, and well, like old people. If you’ve ever been in an old folk’s home, you would know exactly what I’m talking about. Right inside the door was their living room, with two couches and three chairs. I sat on a couch with Uncle Bob, my grandparents sat together on another, and my brother sat on a chair. Aunt Sue didn’t seem to know where to sit, so Uncle Bob helped her into one of their chairs. “Oh boy, I’ve been waiting for you all morning. Been playin’ piano since 9 in the mornin’,” Aunt Sue said. She spoke in an accent that wasn’t quite southern, but midwestern, something that was very noticeable to me after living in the West for so long. “That’s wonderful Sue, I’d love to hear you play at some point today,” said my grandpa, who is a music teacher and had played piano his whole life. “I was playing at my church yesterday and….” I had already tuned them out. I was looking around at the gross patterned wallpaper peeling off the walls. It had rows and rows of teddy bears with bows. The quilted and crocheted blankets draped over most of the chairs and couches had frills attached to the end. You could tell they were hand-made. There were pictures of Sue and Bob’s children and grandchildren everywhere I looked, though I didn’t know who any of them were. After what seemed like hours of looking around, a small black figure crawled out of the couch and onto my jeans. I was mortified, but too nice to say anything or react in any way. So, I squashed the little bug and flicked it onto their offensive shag carpet. I wondered what other bugs were probably crawling beneath me while I sat on their ancient couch. I began to shift my weight in anxiety. I hate bugs. Besides, what kind of people have bed bugs in their couch. Lost in my wonderings and worries about the bug, I was snapped back to attention when they started asking me questions. “How is your school going, dear? What grade will you be next year?” said Uncle Bob. “ Oh, I’ll be a junior next year. I’m excited for it!” I lied. “Oh that’s just wonderful sweetheart. Do you play any music? I tell you, I sure do love to play piano. I was playing for hours before you all showed up.” “Oh yes, I wish I could play the piano but I stopped in 6th grade.” “Oh that’s too bad sweetie!” Then she shifted her attention elsewhere and resumed talking to the other adults. I was confused. Why did she mention that she played piano in the morning twice? Anyways, I continued to look around at their house. They started to talk about how every morning, Bob would make Sue waffles. Their life seemed so mundane to me, but at least they loved each other. Eventually, I let my thoughts wander off as I gazed at the patterned couch beneath me. After what seemed like forever for my brother and me, the old people started to stir and say they should leave soon. We were so ready to leave, so we complained about being hungry. Before we left, Uncle Bob slipped my grandpa a note. The event was subtle, but I noticed it unlike everybody else. Aunt Sue said, “come here and give me a hug goodbye sweetie,” as she embraced me. “It was nice to see you,” I said shyly. “You have grown so much since I’ve seen you. You’re such a beautiful girl!” “Thank you.” “I tell ya, I was so excited to see you today. I played piano for hours while I waited.” “I heard about that. I’m sure you play well.” They held the door open for us and I helped my grandpa out of the door. He broke his hip a couple months earlier, so I was helping him get his walker and step down their few stairs. Then, I had to help him into the backseat of the car by lifting his feet up into the car. I climbed into the front passenger seat next to my grandma. We decided that we’d head home to my grandparents’ house. It was probably about a 2 hour drive, but we were used to long drives at that point in our travels. After I asked him about Sue’s repetition and loony behavior, my grandpa told me to read the letter. I wondered why, because I thought it was just about money or something boring. I accepted and he handed the white slip of paper to me. Inside was very messy handwriting, almost as if someone intoxicated had written it. I could make out most words though, and I read about how this author found their life useless. They wrote about how they thought they should commit suicide soon because their parents died. At the end was signed Sue in cursive. Sue’s parents died years ago, but she must have written that during one of her episodes. I had never pondered the struggles of people affected by dementia. How trivial their lives must feel to wake up and care for a person who doesn’t remember who they are. And how it must drive people crazy when they look at a person they loved and can’t remember who they are. To live your life with bugs in the couch and a disease in your brain.
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AuthorMy name is Nadia Barnard and I'm a junior at South Eugene High School. I made this website to display my work from Creative Writing class. ArchivesCategories |
Photo used under Creative Commons from Brian Travelling