An+Unclear+Picture

THIS IS MY FINAL SO PLEASE ENJOY! PURPLE WRITING EQUALS SLOWING ACTION DOWN! English 8 Naira Demirchian Period 3 11/21/11 __An Unclear Picture__ “Mom! Mom, why do //I// have to be here?” I asked in my baby voice. My mother simply hushed me, because she knew that we //had// to wait in the boiling hot sun, with our sleeves rolled up. She knew my uncle Jack was coming home with life-changing news. But seven-year-old me didn’t know anything but how hot it was.

We were standing on my uncle’s driveway, watching my Uncle Jack get out of the car. He had just come from the hospital, and he didn’t look happy. Once he gave the news, my grandmother turned and began to cry on someone’s shoulder. I don’t remember whose shoulder it was, whether it was my mom, her sister, Aunt Dee, or even Uncle Jack himself, but I remember thinking how frail she looked. My grandmother’s salt and pepper hair was thinning, and her skin was white and pasty. Before, she had the meaty body of a cook and housewife, but now she was small and drained. She had been recovering from a long illness of cancer, and now she would need to recover from a long mourning.

After a quiet minute, everyone wordlessly went into the house. The women shuffled silently to the back-house where my grandparents had lived, clutching each other, tears glistening on their cheeks. The men sat outside on lawn chairs, forming a circle. Some of them smoked, others just sat, still as statues. My two cousins, Gary and Andre, were in the living room crying their eyes out. My sister was following me around as I observed the different ways everyone mourned. I was young, but I could tell the difference between the silent tears of the women, the bawling of my cousins, and the sheer silence of the men. I asked my dad why men didn’t cry. I don’t remember his answer, but know it was short, unlike his usual paragraph-long answers.

After that, I sat on the porch swing, sizzling in the hot sun. I felt sick all of a sudden, my throat clogged, my body paralyzed. I got up, and I went into the house, each step slow, as if I were in pain. My little sister was at my heels, and joined my cousins and me by crying and whining loudly. I don’t know why I cried. I didn’t know my grandfather well, since I was always babysat by my father’s mother. However, I cried like the baby I was that day, and didn’t stop crying. Crying felt good, like a release of tension, or a cure for the sick feeling I had. Maybe that’s why I cried. Maybe I just wanted to be like everyone else at that moment. Maybe I was just cranky because it was hot. Maybe I was sad that I really didn’t know my grandfather, maybe I wished I had known him. During the months that followed, my grandmother became weaker. She had been a busy housewife before, cleaning every day and feeding everyone. After the cancer had come and gone, she had been slowly getting better, doing more activities like sewing or helping my aunts cook. Now, she could barely get out of bed, sometimes asking for water, or help to go to the bathroom.

One night, my older cousin Deanna, who was in her late teens at the time, called and said she was coming over. My sister and I had already showered and were dressed for bed. My mom was upstairs dressing for bed herself, when a knock came at the door. I could Deanna laughing on the other side. I opened the door; a smile plastered on my face, but instead found my cousin crying. My smile vanished almost immediately, and I felt like a heavy stone block had been dropped into my stomach. She went upstairs, leaving me wide- eyed and shivering from the outside air coming in through the open door. I waited for a while, and then decided to go upstairs, curiosity gnawing at my insides. Mom and Deanna were both crying now. Somehow, and I don’t know how, but somehow I just //knew// my grandmother had kicked the bucket. Mom told me to get my sister and put on some clothes. I didn’t move for a minute, my whole body tense, thinking maybe I should comfort mom. But I knew she would want me to just //move.// We dressed quickly, and drove to my uncle’s house, walking right to my grandmother’s back-house. My sister and I were told to wait in the living room of the main house with Gary and Andre. It was exactly the same scene as when my grandfather died, but this time I wasn’t crying. No one was. And it was cold, really cold.

I felt bad then, and still do now, that I hadn’t cried for my grandmother, the way I had for my grandfather. //Did she feel mad?// I wondered. //Does she know I love her? Is she even watching me now?// I think she is.

 I still try to piece together memories of my grandparents, struggling to picture their faces whenever my mom asks, “Do you even remember them?” I don’t want to forget them, but sometimes it’s so hard not to. But for now, I can still see them. Not clearly, but I can still picture them.