Give birth as soon as you can, Martha croaked, swinging her legs off the bed.
Martha was in her eightyseventh year, and shed long since forgotten what it felt like to be young, though her grandson and greatgrandson kept pestering her, sometimes prodding with a cane:
Dont linger, old lady, or youll be left reminiscing about your youth when its far too late.
Now the old woman grew gloomy, stayed in bed, muttered spitefully at the household (What, you little devils, have I woken you so you can sleep till lunch?), and the kitchen pots clanged together at halfpast six in the morning.
The family grew uneasy.
Grandma, asked her fiveyearold greatgranddaughter Poppy, why dont you scold us any more?
Martha sighed, Im about to go, dearmy time is near, a breath that sounded either mournful for the life slipping away or hopeful for something beyond the stew your lot cant even manage to cook any more.
Poppy scurried to the cramped kitchen where the rest of the clan lingered.
Shes lost her marmot! she announced, reporting the latest findings of her covert reconnaissance.
What marmot? asked the family patriarch, Victor, who was also Marthas eldest son, raising his bushy eyebrows. He looked like a character out of an old folk tale, the sort of man who seemed to have the wind itself ruffle his coat.
Probably a little old thing, Poppy shrugged. She had never seen a marmot, after all, and it mattered little to her.
The elders exchanged glances.
The next day a composed, measured doctor paid a visit.
It looks like the old lady isnt feeling well, he said.
Obviously, Victor snapped, slapping his thighs, thats why we called you!
The doctor gave the woman a thoughtful look, then turned to his wife.
Its agerelated, he declared unequivocally. I dont see any serious abnormalities. What symptoms are you observing?
She stopped telling me when to make lunch and dinner! Victors wife, already a grandmother herself, said in a crushed voice. Shes spent her whole life poking her nose into everything, claiming my hands werent made for work, and now she wont even step into the kitchen.
The family council, with the doctor, agreed it was a worrisome sign. Exhausted by worry, they all lay down, as if they might fall into the earth itself.
That night Victor woke to the familiar shuffling of slippers, but this time there was no urgent command to rise and get breakfast ready.
Mum? he whispered, stepping into the hallway.
A bland voice drifted from the darkness.
Whats wrong?
Its just I think Ill slip away to meet Michael Yakov while youre still asleep, the grandmother murmured, as if she were just beginning to pull herself together. Im off to the loo, where else?
Victor flicked the kitchen light on, set the kettle boiling, and sat at the table, clasping his head with both hands.
Hungry? the old woman asked from the corridor, eyeing him.
Yes, Im waiting for you. What was that, Mum?
Martha shuffled to the table.
Its the fifth day Ive been holed up in my room, she began, when a pigeon smashed into the windowbang! I thought it was a omen of death. I lay down, waiting. Day one, day two, day three, and now I woke in the dead of night wondering, Could that sign have taken me to the woods to meet a spirit, so Id waste my life under blankets? Bring me tea, hot and strong. Weve not talked properly for three days, son; well catch up.
Victor finally drifted off around half past five in the morning, while Martha stayed in the kitchen, determined to prepare breakfast herselfno one else would manage to feed the children properly if she didnt.
In the quiet that followed, the family realized that caring for one another, even when time runs thin, is the truest inheritance one can leave. The lesson lingered: love and attention are the lasting feast, far richer than any pot of stew.
