I find you in the bathtub filled with red water. An expression is pasted across your face like I’m the angel who took away your beloved. I see the bottle of vodka on its side by the toilet filled with vomit. You’ve fallen and hit your head getting into the tub and that’s why the water is the color of beet juice. Your eyes are swollen and saliva leaks out the side of your mouth. I extend my hand to help you out of the tub. You swat me away. You say, He’s gone. My Paul is gone. Your bottom lip quivers uncontrollably. I don’t know what to do. I just let my hand remain extended in front of you like the saints’ hands made out of stone in your church.
Let’s get ready for church. We’ll go pray, I say.
Your hand touches the tips of my fingers and it feels like I’m squeezing rotten fruit from your garden in summer. You sway and stumble out of the bathtub. Drops of red water spot the tile floor and old blue rugs matted down like placemats. I don’t know why you keep these rugs. I wrap an ivory towel around your shoulders like angel’s wings and flush the toilet. I help you get dressed. I bandage your head wound. It doesn’t look too bad, I say. You refuse to go to the hospital. You spit when you say it: I’m not going to any doctor!
I make you coffee. We sit quietly for an hour. Golden light pours through the kitchen windows. You look into the light. You squint and say, Take me to church. I say, All right, Grandma.
I go warm up the car. It’s flurrying and the snowflakes remind me of little white feathers falling from the sky. I bundle you up in a winter coat, scarf, and heavy boots, and wrap your babushka around your head. I knot it at your chin like you’re a little girl. The blood has seeped through the bandage—just a little. I try and tell you this but you wave me away. I help you outside, down the cement steps that I swept quickly beforehand with your ratty broom. I don’t know why you keep such worn out things. Mom buys you brand new things but you refuse to use them.
I buckle you into the seat. Your beady eyes are red and swollen and looking at me. You say, My Paul is gone, and your breath puffs in the air like you’re smoking one of his cigars. Your teeth are yellow. Your wrinkles are like a road map to somewhere I haven’t been to yet. I get in the car and the seat crackles from the cold. You look straight ahead, weeping. I say, We’re going to church to pray. You nod yes and say, Where’s my daughter? I tell you Mom’s at work. You say, Why aren’t you in school? I tell you I’m done with school.
You used to rub my sick belly with rubbing alcohol and melted butter. You let me lick the cake batter spoon when Mom wouldn’t let me. You slipped five dollar bills inside my birthday cards. You used to take my side. You rested with me in the afternoon sunshine on a blanket you hand-crocheted. You read to me. You helped me make pierogi and gołąbki. You healed my wounds, you gardened my soul, you led me to the light. You embraced the sun, you rode shooting stars, you were fearless. It’s the least I can do for you.
I see your hands shaking. I turn up the heat and I pat your knee. We pull into the church parking lot. I help you out of the car. You stumble a little. It’s freezing but the snow has subsided. The sun is setting amid purple and blue brush strokes, and underneath the church parking lot lights, I see you breathing heavily. Steam charges out your nostrils like a confused animal. We teeter up the church ramp for disabled patrons instead of taking the steps. The church is open, thank God. No one is here. It smells like old library books. You guide me to the front pew where we sat at his funeral. The only other place you are at home is his grave. You kneel. I watch you pray and beg and weep. Your hands are knotted tightly into each other like a ball of thorns. Your fingernails press into the flesh of your hands. You let your head fall. I notice blood from your head wound saturating your babushka and I panic. It’s the same blood that flows inside my veins. I watch you pray. I wonder if I should make a quick stop at the hospital on the way back to your house. But you’ll never forgive me if I do. You always kept my secrets.
Your wet hair froze outside. Now that we’re inside the warm church with the stone saints and colored glass windows and burning candles, your hair is melting. Gray tendrils stick to your forehead. Little droplets of red water confetti your white scarf. I reach to touch your knotted hands and our hands melt together like wax. You look into my eyes and say, My Paul. He’s gone. I smell the vodka on your breath and I say, I know, Grandma.
You were married for sixty three years. Now he is gone. You spent your life on us. You sacrificed your living for us. You made us.
You look up to the Crucifix and I see how He bleeds and I notice how you bleed. The blood trickles down your cheeks and it almost looks black underneath the dim church lights. You smile and your eyes burn. You have your purple rosary beads wrapped around your hands now. The silver cross dangles and shines. I know you won’t go to the doctor. I can’t betray you. I watch how the flickering candles make shadows dance across your cheeks.
I swear I can already see the ribbons of golden light fan your lined face. I watch the pathways of blood mark your pale skin. Your eyes lift up. You are at peace and so am I.
Let’s get ready for church. We’ll go pray, I say.
Your hand touches the tips of my fingers and it feels like I’m squeezing rotten fruit from your garden in summer. You sway and stumble out of the bathtub. Drops of red water spot the tile floor and old blue rugs matted down like placemats. I don’t know why you keep these rugs. I wrap an ivory towel around your shoulders like angel’s wings and flush the toilet. I help you get dressed. I bandage your head wound. It doesn’t look too bad, I say. You refuse to go to the hospital. You spit when you say it: I’m not going to any doctor!
I make you coffee. We sit quietly for an hour. Golden light pours through the kitchen windows. You look into the light. You squint and say, Take me to church. I say, All right, Grandma.
I go warm up the car. It’s flurrying and the snowflakes remind me of little white feathers falling from the sky. I bundle you up in a winter coat, scarf, and heavy boots, and wrap your babushka around your head. I knot it at your chin like you’re a little girl. The blood has seeped through the bandage—just a little. I try and tell you this but you wave me away. I help you outside, down the cement steps that I swept quickly beforehand with your ratty broom. I don’t know why you keep such worn out things. Mom buys you brand new things but you refuse to use them.
I buckle you into the seat. Your beady eyes are red and swollen and looking at me. You say, My Paul is gone, and your breath puffs in the air like you’re smoking one of his cigars. Your teeth are yellow. Your wrinkles are like a road map to somewhere I haven’t been to yet. I get in the car and the seat crackles from the cold. You look straight ahead, weeping. I say, We’re going to church to pray. You nod yes and say, Where’s my daughter? I tell you Mom’s at work. You say, Why aren’t you in school? I tell you I’m done with school.
You used to rub my sick belly with rubbing alcohol and melted butter. You let me lick the cake batter spoon when Mom wouldn’t let me. You slipped five dollar bills inside my birthday cards. You used to take my side. You rested with me in the afternoon sunshine on a blanket you hand-crocheted. You read to me. You helped me make pierogi and gołąbki. You healed my wounds, you gardened my soul, you led me to the light. You embraced the sun, you rode shooting stars, you were fearless. It’s the least I can do for you.
I see your hands shaking. I turn up the heat and I pat your knee. We pull into the church parking lot. I help you out of the car. You stumble a little. It’s freezing but the snow has subsided. The sun is setting amid purple and blue brush strokes, and underneath the church parking lot lights, I see you breathing heavily. Steam charges out your nostrils like a confused animal. We teeter up the church ramp for disabled patrons instead of taking the steps. The church is open, thank God. No one is here. It smells like old library books. You guide me to the front pew where we sat at his funeral. The only other place you are at home is his grave. You kneel. I watch you pray and beg and weep. Your hands are knotted tightly into each other like a ball of thorns. Your fingernails press into the flesh of your hands. You let your head fall. I notice blood from your head wound saturating your babushka and I panic. It’s the same blood that flows inside my veins. I watch you pray. I wonder if I should make a quick stop at the hospital on the way back to your house. But you’ll never forgive me if I do. You always kept my secrets.
Your wet hair froze outside. Now that we’re inside the warm church with the stone saints and colored glass windows and burning candles, your hair is melting. Gray tendrils stick to your forehead. Little droplets of red water confetti your white scarf. I reach to touch your knotted hands and our hands melt together like wax. You look into my eyes and say, My Paul. He’s gone. I smell the vodka on your breath and I say, I know, Grandma.
You were married for sixty three years. Now he is gone. You spent your life on us. You sacrificed your living for us. You made us.
You look up to the Crucifix and I see how He bleeds and I notice how you bleed. The blood trickles down your cheeks and it almost looks black underneath the dim church lights. You smile and your eyes burn. You have your purple rosary beads wrapped around your hands now. The silver cross dangles and shines. I know you won’t go to the doctor. I can’t betray you. I watch how the flickering candles make shadows dance across your cheeks.
I swear I can already see the ribbons of golden light fan your lined face. I watch the pathways of blood mark your pale skin. Your eyes lift up. You are at peace and so am I.
