My Grandmother Turned 100

My grandmother turned 100.
She lives in an old house,
on an Indian reservation in the American Northwest.
She remembers the war—
the bombs,
the rationing,
the drills,
blackout curtains drawn tight.
She remembers.
She is an American.
She believes in the country.
Her father at the wooden table,
drawing plans for houses.
She draws plans too.
She wants to be an architect,
and to make clothes—
natural, simple, fashionable.
I remember sugar.
I remember gasoline.
I remember planes overhead.
I remember Lyndon,
the Ford motor car,
the glass atrium.
Ask anyone—
they remember my grandfather.
I remember Norway:
the houses,
the colors,
the cold—
where our family came from.
She believes in America still.
You can have anything here.
Look—
this sugar, this bread,
this marvelous country.
Now I must get up.
Now I must sit down.
Now I must walk across the room.
Now I must call my children.
Can’t you stay here with me?
Just one more week?
The waves are quiet.
Everything hurts.
I leave the television on at night.
I inherited your love of Frank Lloyd Wright,
your belief in America,
your faith in sugar,
in gasoline.
Her body aches.
She grew up without siblings.
Her mother lost a child.

I lost a child.

We should have done this years ago.
There’s no money.
The state will take the house.
Too far to drive.
Too old to sell.
She needs someone there.
She needs care.
She calls the firemen when she falls.
Do you remember the World’s Fair?
Your first love?
I can’t remember.
It’s all too much.
I wish I had a sister—
someone to remember with.
I want to die in my house.
Not slowly, not disappearing—
not conversations behind my back,
decisions made for me,
while I cling and suffer alone.
Let it be fast,
like my grandfather:
skin and bone in his favorite chair,
awake, alive.
Painful, yes—
but at home, surrounded by family.
Why can’t you stay a little longer?
Sit on the deck a little longer?
The seals rise in the water.
The deck sags with rot.
Cobwebs veil the chairs outside.
Mid-century furniture,
faded, tattered.
A screen glows in an empty room.