Not His Home
He doesn’t talk that much.
He doesn’t listen that much either.
He doesn’t really do that much at all. Sometimes he’s awake when we come to visit. Other times he’s sleeping in his chair in front of his fire with his small white dog on his lap. His hands rest lightly on his cane and shake ever so slightly, teetering the wood back and forth, back and forth.
I had met him only twice before his bed was propped up in the living room of my grandparents house, and I had to give him a kiss on the cheek every time I visited Grandma and Grandpa. Grandpa Joe is moving in with grandpa and grandma, my mother casually told my sister and me one day. A quick six months and thousands of dollars in home renovation later, Grandpa Joe arrived in Ohio from his home in Virginia and had a new home--a better home, a more comfortable home, a safer home—but not his home.
It’s not as if I didn’t want him there. But he has lived so much life and now he’s run out of life to live, so now he’s a rocking chair. Old but still rocking. Creaking but sturdy. And no one wants to make it seem like they’re having too much fun, or Grandpa Joe will smile his sad smile. And everyone knows Grandpa Joe is not really happy when he smiles his sad smile.
These are my daughters Rachael and Erika. Mom told Grandpa Joe too loud and too slow. He grabbed my young hand with his old hand. Is this a handshake? No. His eyes look sad. I wonder if he remembers what it felt like to be eleven-years-old. I could not tell if he knew what was going on. Sometimes, it seems like he’s not a day over fifty-- other times, his old age of ninety-four fits him like a glove.
I noticed the dog.
Maggie short for Magnolia. Maggie. That’s Maggie. She’s a good dog, Maggie.
Maggie is my dog. He told me about his dog. She’s a good dog. Small and fluffy and white and clean and full of energy. He can’t feed her. He can’t walk her. He only picks her up and sets her on his lap and falls asleep. He needs Maggie. He needs Maggie because he needs company. Maggie is not Grandpa Joe’s dog. Grandpa Joe is Maggie’s human.
A portrait of his younger, stronger-looking self is hanging in his room. This must be the largest canvas I’ve ever seen. I wonder who hung it. It’s pretty. It’s bold. This Grandpa Joe is wearing a black suit with a black tie, and behind him is a beautiful spring yellow. The outer edge was broken into symmetric shapes and filled in with splotches of bright reds and blues. I wonder who saw Grandpa Joe like this.
Who painted this? I asked Mom.
Grandma’s brother, Grandpa Joe’s oldest son, was her reply. A moment passed. He passed away a few years ago, she added quietly.
Oh.
I wonder what a portrait of Grandpa Joe would look like if Grandma painted it.
I wonder what a portrait of Grandpa Joe would look like if Mom painted it.
I wonder what a portrait of Grandpa Joe would look like if I painted it.
He doesn’t listen that much either.
He doesn’t really do that much at all. Sometimes he’s awake when we come to visit. Other times he’s sleeping in his chair in front of his fire with his small white dog on his lap. His hands rest lightly on his cane and shake ever so slightly, teetering the wood back and forth, back and forth.
I had met him only twice before his bed was propped up in the living room of my grandparents house, and I had to give him a kiss on the cheek every time I visited Grandma and Grandpa. Grandpa Joe is moving in with grandpa and grandma, my mother casually told my sister and me one day. A quick six months and thousands of dollars in home renovation later, Grandpa Joe arrived in Ohio from his home in Virginia and had a new home--a better home, a more comfortable home, a safer home—but not his home.
It’s not as if I didn’t want him there. But he has lived so much life and now he’s run out of life to live, so now he’s a rocking chair. Old but still rocking. Creaking but sturdy. And no one wants to make it seem like they’re having too much fun, or Grandpa Joe will smile his sad smile. And everyone knows Grandpa Joe is not really happy when he smiles his sad smile.
These are my daughters Rachael and Erika. Mom told Grandpa Joe too loud and too slow. He grabbed my young hand with his old hand. Is this a handshake? No. His eyes look sad. I wonder if he remembers what it felt like to be eleven-years-old. I could not tell if he knew what was going on. Sometimes, it seems like he’s not a day over fifty-- other times, his old age of ninety-four fits him like a glove.
I noticed the dog.
Maggie short for Magnolia. Maggie. That’s Maggie. She’s a good dog, Maggie.
Maggie is my dog. He told me about his dog. She’s a good dog. Small and fluffy and white and clean and full of energy. He can’t feed her. He can’t walk her. He only picks her up and sets her on his lap and falls asleep. He needs Maggie. He needs Maggie because he needs company. Maggie is not Grandpa Joe’s dog. Grandpa Joe is Maggie’s human.
A portrait of his younger, stronger-looking self is hanging in his room. This must be the largest canvas I’ve ever seen. I wonder who hung it. It’s pretty. It’s bold. This Grandpa Joe is wearing a black suit with a black tie, and behind him is a beautiful spring yellow. The outer edge was broken into symmetric shapes and filled in with splotches of bright reds and blues. I wonder who saw Grandpa Joe like this.
Who painted this? I asked Mom.
Grandma’s brother, Grandpa Joe’s oldest son, was her reply. A moment passed. He passed away a few years ago, she added quietly.
Oh.
I wonder what a portrait of Grandpa Joe would look like if Grandma painted it.
I wonder what a portrait of Grandpa Joe would look like if Mom painted it.
I wonder what a portrait of Grandpa Joe would look like if I painted it.
Doug and Lucy
Doug can jump higher than me. Doug can jump higher than me even though we are the same height and the same age and we’re jumping on the same trampoline. Doug looks like he might just reach the clouds. I want to touch the clouds like Doug. I jump harder. I breathe harder. Doug can jump higher than me. Still.
Doug’s real name is not actually Doug. Doug is just a pretend name he chose. Doug is actually the name of an important man on TV Carter saw once. Doug’s real name is actually Carter. But Carter doesn’t like Carter, so now he’s Doug.
My name is Lucy. My real name is not actually Lucy. Lucy is just a pretend name I chose. Lucy is actually the name of a pretty girl I read about in a book once. My name is actually Rachael. But I don’t like Rachael so now I’m Lucy.
Doug can drive monster trucks and Lucy can bake perfect lemon cakes. Carter can’t drive monster trucks and Rachael can’t bake perfect lemon cakes. Doug can ride a bike without training wheels and Lucy looks pretty and mature in big cream hair bows. Carter can’t ride a bike without training wheels and Rachael doesn’t actually own any big cream bows.
Doug wasn't always Doug and I wasn't always Lucy. One day, Carter and I realized it wasn't fun being Carter and Rachael anymore, so we chose new names. We also chose a bunch of other cool things about Doug and Lucy. Like how Doug can mow the grass without his dad’s help, and Lucy can sing as pretty as a songbird.
Doug isn't always Doug and I'm not always Lucy. Sometimes when Mommy and Daddy drive me to Mamaw's house for the day and Carter’s family is not away somewhere, I get to go over the fence to their house and eat popsicles and throw a big red frisbee and jump on the trampoline. That’s when I’m Lucy, and that’s when Carter is Doug, and that’s when we're happy. And that’s when we ride the clouds to a faraway land where we always feel good, like we just peeled a clementine in one go.
But then Mamaw moved.
And then Carter’s family moved.
And then no one crossed the fence anymore. And there is no Lucy without Doug, and there is no Doug without Lucy. And I don’t pretend to bake perfect lemon cakes or have big cream bows or sing as pretty as a songbird anymore.
Doug’s real name is not actually Doug. Doug is just a pretend name he chose. Doug is actually the name of an important man on TV Carter saw once. Doug’s real name is actually Carter. But Carter doesn’t like Carter, so now he’s Doug.
My name is Lucy. My real name is not actually Lucy. Lucy is just a pretend name I chose. Lucy is actually the name of a pretty girl I read about in a book once. My name is actually Rachael. But I don’t like Rachael so now I’m Lucy.
Doug can drive monster trucks and Lucy can bake perfect lemon cakes. Carter can’t drive monster trucks and Rachael can’t bake perfect lemon cakes. Doug can ride a bike without training wheels and Lucy looks pretty and mature in big cream hair bows. Carter can’t ride a bike without training wheels and Rachael doesn’t actually own any big cream bows.
Doug wasn't always Doug and I wasn't always Lucy. One day, Carter and I realized it wasn't fun being Carter and Rachael anymore, so we chose new names. We also chose a bunch of other cool things about Doug and Lucy. Like how Doug can mow the grass without his dad’s help, and Lucy can sing as pretty as a songbird.
Doug isn't always Doug and I'm not always Lucy. Sometimes when Mommy and Daddy drive me to Mamaw's house for the day and Carter’s family is not away somewhere, I get to go over the fence to their house and eat popsicles and throw a big red frisbee and jump on the trampoline. That’s when I’m Lucy, and that’s when Carter is Doug, and that’s when we're happy. And that’s when we ride the clouds to a faraway land where we always feel good, like we just peeled a clementine in one go.
But then Mamaw moved.
And then Carter’s family moved.
And then no one crossed the fence anymore. And there is no Lucy without Doug, and there is no Doug without Lucy. And I don’t pretend to bake perfect lemon cakes or have big cream bows or sing as pretty as a songbird anymore.
