December with my Grandma by Caitlin Upshall

              ​Peter Robinett CC



December with my Grandma

Grandma says she can walk just fine, so I park illegally in front of the movie theater and hold her arm as we strut past judgmental stares. I remember the stares from last year when we went to this special screening for the first time; but to her, this is wonderful and new and exciting, and I try to share her enthusiasm. She has forgotten her hearing aids and pretends to turn them on as she adjusts her glasses and pilfers candy from my purse. 

Before and after the title screen appears, she will ask me what we are seeing, and when George Bailey offers Mary the moon, she will say, oh that’s just dumb, loud enough for our seat neighbors’ neighbors to politely ignore us through muffled laughter.

She will ask me four times who James Stewart is playing and twice if my mother is working that night. Jokes will be followed by, I don’t get that, between bites of chocolate and fake hearing aid adjustments.

I have learned to turn down my imaginary hearing aids when I am with her. Answer her genuine questions as best I can, without shushing her or transferring my secondhand embarrassment. Who is James Stewart playing? Well, which one is that? Oh. 

We didn’t know how long she would stay around after my grandfather died. Within days of his death, I found myself researching “broken heart syndrome” and wondering if we should buy grandma a kitten or a puppy. Is your mother teaching tonight? Oh. And, oh, which one is James Stewart again? I can’t remember.

When Mr. Potter comes on the screen and begins badgering the rest of the characters, she’ll click her tongue and say, oh, ick! What an awful man!, wagging a finger to reprimand Lionel Barrymore through the silver screen. And when other people laugh at the film, she will spin around and evaluate them curiously, knocking candy onto the floor.

I see glimpses of a younger grandma now and again—the way she was before my grandfather died. I took her to Costco once and lost her for five minutes, which is roughly an hour in grandma time. When I found her, she had made friends with a young man in his forties and enlisted his help in carrying a 5lb. container of chocolate candy around the store, looking for me. He left behind a wife and child in aisle three.

Is your mother at a concert, then, or is she teaching? Oh. I feel so silly, I can’t remember a thing. I search for those glimpses. Take her to old movies, play old music, introduce 20th century media and language into my brain to build a bridge to her. On her best days, she remembers her schedule for the week. On her worst days, she still has the wherewithal to make friends at Costco.

She pretends to adjust her hearing again and as George Bailey delivers his speech to the good people at Bailey Building and Loan, she will recite it along without need for subtitles. Loud enough—again—that our seat neighbors’ neighbors hear her passionate rendition, and I fall deeper in love with her and tell her I want to give her the moon or the galaxy or a star, one that she can tuck into my purse for safekeeping beside my/her candy.

She does not hear me.
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Caitlin Upshall holds a B.A. in English from Western Washington University. Her work has been published by the tiny journal, OyeDrum, The Sweet Tree Review, Entropy Magazine, and others. In her spare time, she enjoys most things dinosaur-related and trivia nights. You can find her on Instagram at @CaitlinUpshall.

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