Harvest



Grandma had an emergency abdominal surgery tonight. She's my last surviving grandparent and about eighty-five years old.

When I was four years old, my parents left me with her and Grandpa for a few days while they whooped it up in Reno. After lunch, Grandma and I played "farm" under the kitchen table. She cut a shoebox up for the barn and laid it on the brown tiled floor. Then, we lined up popcorn in neat little rows and I pretended it was my cornfield. As I pulled my Tonka pickup around the imaginary farm, she'd tell me about getting frostbite on a real farm up in Northwest Canada.

These days, whenever I visit her, which is about every four months (more often in winter), she rarely can remember my name. I'm used to introducing myself when I see her.

"Hi Grandma, it's Christian," I'll say.

Otherwise, she always calls me Paul, or another one of her long passed brothers' names. It never offends me. She really loved her brothers.



Conversation is usually slow with grandma. But, on a good day, she stays with me and keeps up with the small talk. She mainly relates the "news": a grandchild visited her around noon. After lunch, she went for a walk with her neighbor, Betty. Aunt Norma left her a box of red and black licorice.

"Have some," she offers.

I take some. Prepackaged candy has taken the place of homemade chicken soup and rice.

We always run out of things to say. There's no more news.

There's nothing new.

There's only now.




Her eyes are faded blue-gray.

Her voice is sweet, twisted, and gnarled like the licorice on the shelf.




A deep, gentle breath.




"I remember when you and I used to play farm," she'll say.


"Yes, grandma, I do, too."


"You used to love that game."