April 12, 2025
I woke up to the sound of my grandmother, Martha Brown, sliding her legs off the bed with that rattling sigh she always makes when she thinks about the future. At eightyseven shes practically a relic, and yet she still insists on reminding us that she needs to have a baby as soon as possible, as if she were still a teenager.
Grandma Martha has long since forgotten what it feels like to be in her thirties; its my son, Oliver, and my grandson, Jamie, who keep nudging her with a cane, whispering, If you stay wrapped in that blue stocking, youll end up remembering us when its too late.
Lately shes stopped getting out of bed, refuses to scold anyone (What, you lot, why are you sleeping till lunch?), and the kitchen pots clatter together at half past six like a marching band in the dark. The whole family grew tense.
My dear, why dont you swear at us any more? asked my fiveyearold greatgranddaughter, Emily, her tiny voice echoing off the hallway tiles.
Because Im about to die, love, Martha whispered, the words hanging between a sigh of sorrow and a flicker of something beyond the broth weve been trying to perfect for weeks.
Emily darted off to the cramped kitchen where the rest of us were hoarding our nerves. Grandmas groundhog is dead! she announced, having just returned from a covert reconnaissance mission of her own.
What groundhog? asked the head of the family, my own father, Victor Harris, who also happens to be Marthas eldest son. He raised his bushy eyebrows in that old, grimacing way that always reminded me of the folklore charlatans from childrens taleswind in their hair, always halfintheair.
Probably an old one, Emily shrugged. She never even saw the animal; it was just another story Martha never got around to telling her.
The adults exchanged weary glances. The next morning a doctorpolite, measured, and entirely too formalcame over.
Mrs. Brown seems unwell, he declared, flipping through his notes.
Of course, Victor snapped, slapping his thighs. What would we have done without you, eh?
The doctor looked first at Victor, then at his wife, Eleanor, who was already looking like a senior citizen in her own right.
Its agerelated, he said, without hesitation. I dont see any serious abnormalities. What symptoms are you noticing?
She wont even tell me when its time for lunch or dinner anymore! Eleanor said, voice dropping to a whisper. Shes been poking her nose into everything, telling me my hands are the wrong ones, and now she wont even set foot in the kitchen.
We all agreed that this was a worrying sign. Exhausted by the worry, we fell into bed and, for a while, it felt as if wed simply slipped into oblivion.
In the dead of night I was roused by the familiar shuffling of slippers. This time, however, it wasnt the urgent kind that demands you jump up for breakfast and get to work.
Mum? I whispered, stepping into the hallway.
A muffled Yeah? drifted back from the darkness.
Whats the matter? I asked.
Yes, love, a tired voice replied, while youre all sleeping Im going off to meet Mike Lawson for a night out. Im off to the loowhere else would I go?
Victor flicked the kitchen light on, set the kettle boiling, and sank into a chair, his hands gripping his head.
Are you famished? Martha asked from the doorway, eyes halfclosed.
Im waiting for you, I muttered. What was that, Mum?
She shuffled over to the table.
Ive been stuck in my room for five days, she began, when a pigeon smashed into the windowbang! I thought that was a sign of death. I lay there, waiting. Day after day, the second day, the third and then I woke up in the middle of the night thinking, Maybe that omen should have gone off to the woods, so I could spend my life under the covers instead. Pour me some tea, the hotter the better. Weve barely spoken for three days, son, but well catch up.
Victor finally collapsed onto the couch at half past four in the morning, while I stayed in the kitchen, frying a simple English breakfast because, after all, nobody else could manage the little whitehanded childrens meals the way we needed.
The house feels both empty and crowded, the scent of tea and frying bacon hanging in the air. Im left wondering how long we can keep pretending everythings fine when the walls themselves seem to whisper that perhaps, after all, its time to let go.
