By Kai Crawford
Grandma had been sitting on the couch. The yellowish-brown family couch, where she’d let you eat popcorn and those chocolate-covered cherries Grandpa loved. On her lap was a blanket Grandpa gave her two years ago. She wore a knitted hat my brother gave her, along with the shawl and socks I’d gotten her for Christmas. I remembered she’d been complaining about how cold her feet were. I remember how surprised and happy she’d been when she’d opened the gift.
But now she was looking down and hadn’t really moved since I started talking. I didn’t really expect her to. I didn’t really expect much of anything, I knew it would be OK, though. It was just who she was. It was just awkward given how time was against us both.
So, in her silence, I took the seat next to her. And even then, it felt so long before she spoke.
“I’m sorry.”
“Huh?”
“I’m sorry I made you wear pantyhose.”
My head buzzed as her voice wavered. She pulled out a tissue from her sleeve and started wiping her eyes. I have no clue what she’s talking about.
“In the eighth grade. You were so upset! I should have known.”
It clicked right then. My eighth-grade graduation. I remember being put into a dress and lying in the back of the car in the church parking lot. I remember being frustrated and having a fit I was much too old to be having. Grandma was there, insisting I wear the pantyhose. I hated the dress, I hated pantyhose. I hated being told I was pretty.
And I just told her that again.
I started crying, the happy kind, as I tried to comfort her.
“I didn’t even remember that, Grandma!”
It had gotten lost as those little moments piled up and eventually, worse fights took its place. Never with her though. And when I tried to be “pretty,” I wanted to be pretty in the way she was. Like how she is now.
“I did.” She pulled a fresh tissue from the box on the end table. “You were so unhappy. You’ve always been an easygoing kid. But you were flailing about in the back of the Trailblazer like that.”
“I hated how easy they got holes.” I admitted, taking the tissue from her. “They do make your legs look nice. But they rip so easily, and I think I was just frustrated.”
“Still, I’m sorry dear. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“It’s nothing Grandma. You don’t need to apologize.” I opened my arms to hug her, aware of how fragile she felt. “I love you.”
“I love you too. And thank you for telling me.” She slowly pulled back, before reaching her thin hand up to run it through my new short hair. “You look very handsome.”
Kai Crawford lives in the Long Beach area of California in the U.S., where they constantly work on their writing.