Catching Tears
© Tim Barker 2000
(1124 words)
The snow is heavy this afternoon, it impairs my
vision as I trudge up the country lane towards my Gran's house. The noise of
squashed flakes of wintry hindrance almost deafens my sensitive hearing. I
approach the gate, brushing the crystallised precipitation off the bolt
allowing it to slide aside, permitting entrance. The snow is also heavy on my
Gran's path which surprises me as it's unlike her not to welcome visitors with
the finest details of hospitality taken care of. I make a mental note to borrow
her shovel later to clear the precarious path. Over the high hedge I can hear
the unmistakable sound of children running riot in the Olympic stadium of the
neighbour's garden, their voices carrying over the icy wind like tinkering milk
bottles.
As I approach the house I notice that the back door
is wide open. A moment of panic rises deep inside my body causing me to peer
through the back window, looking for signs of disturbance or evidence of
struggles. I see neither. Instead, all is placid and familiar. The adrenaline
subsides as I head through the back door, closing it firmly behind me, sealing
in the heat and at the same time keeping out the unwanted beast of brutal
winds. I walk through the kitchen, subconsciously examining the minutiae of
domestic details, looking for incongruent items misplaced in the familiar order
one finds in the houses of older folk. Everything has a place in a universe
predetermined and constrained by the blinkers of domesticity. Noticing nothing
out-of-the-ordinary or at least nothing to arouse any suspicions I make my way
into the living room where the air is thick with the smell of roses and furniture polish.
Lying there, on the age-old sofa, almost symbiotic
with the inanimate antique is my Gran. Panic rises through my body again, my
realities mix and I attempt to wake her. I shake and shake, holding her by the
shoulders, trying to breathe life into her hollow frame, infusing energy from
my own existence before I realise I must have gone too far. At this point my
Gran awakens but there's no helping me now. "I'm dead, I'm dead" I
manage to articulate. But my Gran is unmoved by this outburst and subsequently
attempts to calm me, whispering incomprehensible incantations yet I feel them lull
me into a sense of pacifism. I relax and turn around. There, slumped in the
reclining seat behind me is another image of my Gran but she looks different,
not least because of the pierced eyebrow. This second manifestation turns her
head and looks me in the eye saying "you look pale" with an earnest
expression on her pristine face. I'm worried, I don't know what to make of my
situation. The world I'm inhabiting spins, I feel my legs give way and gravity
takes a hold.
When I awake I'm sitting in the reclining chair.
There's a small square coffee table not too far away with two cups and a plate
of assorted cakes placed upon it's surface. I ease myself up and reach out for
one of the cups. The warm, sweet liquid is as nectar to my disorientation,
familiarising my physical senses and adjusting my consciousness. I slowly come
round as my Gran begins to chat from the comfort of her persistently recumbent
position.
"He was a naughty boy at the best of times but
your Grandad would give him a clip round the ear. It didn't stop him, mind you.
Oh, he was a nowt !" She says.
"I'm just going to stretch my legs Gran."
I say as I ease myself up.
I walk around the room noting how everywhere is
impeccably clean almost hospital-clean, like dust had never had time to settle,
as soon as it formed in the atmosphere particulates were caught in mid-air and
jettisoned into the bin.
"I'll make a fresh pot of tea." My Gran
states.
"OK Gran." I acquiesce.
I take this opportunity to have a look around the
rest of the house but everything looks in order. I don't know what I'm
expecting to see. Then in the spare bedroom I come across a strange occurrence.
On the middle of the bed is an assortment of old postcards, photographs and
birthday cards all laid out in the shape of a crucifix. My brain reels, what
can this mean ? But I decide to keep quiet, some things are best left unsaid,
especially with the older folk.
I gently make my way down the stairs towards the
living room. My Gran has replenished my cup. I gratefully place the bone china
next to my lips and digest the golden elixir. She recommences the conversation.
"There was Elsie who died 12 months after her
husband. From loneliness they say. Gladys passed away just before Christmas.
And you remember little Annie Hall ?" She asks of me.
"Yes, I remember Annie" I comply.
"Well, she was doing really well after a heart
bypass then all of a sudden she went just like that. I say, you never know, you
never know. When I think of all the people I've known and how many are left. Well,
it just makes you think. I know my eyesight isn't much use in this eye but I've
got a lot to be thankful for you know."
"It's true Gran, you have. I know it's not that
easy but you really should count yourself lucky. I mean, at least you've still
got a sharp mind and your sense of humour. That's more than a lot of people
your age have got !" I encourage.
"Yes, you're right. I know."
"I have to get the bus to the top of the street
now you know and I can't sew anymore. But you're right."
I sit and wonder if I really am right but, of
course, I don't display my doubt.
Somewhere, in the distance I can hear a phone
ringing and I know I have to answer this. I ease myself out of the chair which
becomes a bed and then I am throwing a duvet back and hunting for my slippers.
I automatically throw on my dressing gown and shuffle towards the hallway. I
get to the phone still half asleep.
"Hello ?" I manage to articulate.
"Sam, it's Dad. I've got some bad news. Your
Gran died unexpectedly in the night in her sleep. The neighbours found her. I'm
sorry."
My system reels then I remember. " Don't be sorry
Dad. She was ready to go. She'll be happy, don't doubt it. I'll meet you there
ASAP." A single solitary tear wells up in my eye, runs down my cheek
and is caught by my slightly quivering knowing smile.