I remember your house. I remember the main street and the alley, the nearest supermarket, the old staircase and the balcony, the old wooden door, the dining table facing it, the cozy living room (which used to be a bedroom), your room, the guests’ room, the little bathroom, the bigger bathroom, and the kitchen. Did I leave something out?
I remember your sweet smiling face as you open the door and ask me for a big fat kiss.
I used to spend hours in your long narrow balcony, watching people in the street, listening to the neighbors fighting, singing and even talking to myself. You caught me once talking out loud to myself – I wasn’t being careful – I blushed and I defensively said that I was talking to a little girl in the street! You didn’t comment, you went back in and left me with my illusions. When I was younger I used to race my cousins in there (out there); the narrow balcony extending across the side of three rooms was huge for us back then. I remember the other little balcony too, but I rarely went in there. It was always stuffed with mysterious things in plastic bags and cardboard boxes. I always stayed clear from that one for fear that mice could be hidden anywhere beneath the piles of boxes and within the bags. You made us believe that just to make sure that nobody messes with the things you keep in your little balcony.
I spent many nights over, weeks apart from one another. I remember jumping into your bed in winter tucking my frozen feet under the covers. You used to warm them with your own feet while tickling me, and I could hear you say through my giggles “those icy-cold feet of yours are freeeezzing me”. I never cover my feet now! They’re never cold. Was that you? Did you warm them up forever?
We woke up one Friday afternoon (my cousins and I) to your voice calling us from the kitchen, asking us to get up, pray, make up our beds and help you with the cleaning. I got up first to get to the bathroom before anyone else, you were so proud of me for being so ‘obedient’. I was about to make my bed and help out when you called me. You said “don’t do anything, they’ll do it, you’re the lady here. You just sit here with your arms folded and do nothing”. I smiled and told you that they were ‘ladies’ too and if I do nothing they’d be upset. You thought for a while then said “fine, you just make the bed then, that’s the easy task; I’ll come help you, but don’t do anything else. Can’t you see how skinny you are? They eat more and so they can work more!”
I remember one of those days; my mother had a little fight with you when she found out that you used to give me sugar cubes behind her back. She said they were bad for my teeth, but you knew I loved sugar and you were being kind to me as always. You stood up for me when mama yelled and you showed me the hiding place where you keep heaps of sugar cubes, just in case you weren’t around when I wanted some. So is that why I have bad teeth?
I remember the chair you called daddy’s. It was always saved just for him; none of your other sons-in-law could sit on it when he was around. You made it clear that it was his.
I remember what you called me and my sisters: I was your ‘honey’, my big sister was your ‘sweet strawberry syrup’, and my little sister was your ‘little sugar’.
I remember how you called – or rather categorized – your own sons. One was your heart, the other your shoulder, the last your back bone. How did you do that grandma? How did you categorize everyone and everything like that? Do I get that from you?
It’s been a long time granny, a long time since it all happened (used to happen) and a long time since you’re gone. Why am I remembering all of this now? Is it the fear that one day I’d wake up not remembering a single memory I had with you? This thought always frightened me; the thought of living with no memories to look back to and reminisce. So can you hear me granny? I still remember things… and I miss you.
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*This post was written a long while back, around 3 years ago. The reason I’m posting it again in this blog is simply cause I’m a little nostalgic to my childhood years.. and my granny. It makes me smile from the heart.
**Another possible reason: I don’t feel like writing anything new.
They Said...