Summer, 2005, the whole family gathered at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Cheer was present, but a sense of weakness filled the atmosphere. I didn’t understand it then and I think I didn’t even realize; Grams was getting weaker. Her petite frame appeared smaller. Yet, her arms still hugged and her fingers still tickled, counting ribs.
Counting ribs is what she called it. She’d tickle me while counting how many ribs I had. The longer I kept from laughing, the more ribs I had. I can still picture her dark eyes and unfurling lips. Her teeth showed when she smiled. The look on her face was one of attack, a playful attack. Even in my mid-twenties, it was thrilling. My body still coiled with anticipation of her tickle attack.
My cousins, from the Midwest, two strong, loving guys, put their hearts into pulling weeds which overtook the plants and flowers. I and the rest of the family did the same. We yanked at big stocks that were rooted far into the ground. Tree branches snapped and bombarded the walkways. The molding birdbath sat in the center of the yard, dry. We hacked at dead branches, swept decaying fruit, and discarded lifeless fallen leaves. After a day, the yard was cleared. But the plants and flowers were weak.
Grams carved watermelon with a dull knife. The scent of watery sweetness filled the air. Popcorn popped in two microwaves that sat at opposite ends of the kitchen. The microwaves sang, “We’re done,” and Grams took out the steamy bags of popcorn and handled them with care as she passed them along to everyone in the living room. Bowls of watermelon were distributed next.
My first bite of watermelon savored in my mouth as I looked around the room. The last sight I saw of the whole family together in that living room; a light meal; our last dinner as a whole family in that room. First, I thought, “Grams and Gramps sure do eat lightly these days.” After a few moments passed, my thought changed, “Grams might not have the energy to cook like she used to.”
Counting ribs is what she called it. She’d tickle me while counting how many ribs I had. The longer I kept from laughing, the more ribs I had. I can still picture her dark eyes and unfurling lips. Her teeth showed when she smiled. The look on her face was one of attack, a playful attack. Even in my mid-twenties, it was thrilling. My body still coiled with anticipation of her tickle attack.
My cousins, from the Midwest, two strong, loving guys, put their hearts into pulling weeds which overtook the plants and flowers. I and the rest of the family did the same. We yanked at big stocks that were rooted far into the ground. Tree branches snapped and bombarded the walkways. The molding birdbath sat in the center of the yard, dry. We hacked at dead branches, swept decaying fruit, and discarded lifeless fallen leaves. After a day, the yard was cleared. But the plants and flowers were weak.
Grams carved watermelon with a dull knife. The scent of watery sweetness filled the air. Popcorn popped in two microwaves that sat at opposite ends of the kitchen. The microwaves sang, “We’re done,” and Grams took out the steamy bags of popcorn and handled them with care as she passed them along to everyone in the living room. Bowls of watermelon were distributed next.
My first bite of watermelon savored in my mouth as I looked around the room. The last sight I saw of the whole family together in that living room; a light meal; our last dinner as a whole family in that room. First, I thought, “Grams and Gramps sure do eat lightly these days.” After a few moments passed, my thought changed, “Grams might not have the energy to cook like she used to.”
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