With Hands Worn from Endless

My Name

With hands worn from endless cultivating of plump vegetables and berries in the garden out back— hands that clearly convey signs of countless years of fidelity and obedience to my husband— with these hands I vehemently embrace Arthur's lifeless figure lying motionless on the overpowering hospital bed like the shed skin of a spring locust attached delicately to the branch of a towering oak tree waiting to be captured by the currents of the east wind. My body convulses quietly. Tears of sadness and relief escape the ducts that had been courageously sealed while the eyes painfully watched him suffer.

"Your eyes are much bigger than your stomach!" Grandma unceasingly reported after keenly observing the remains of still-warm, cinnamon-topped, sweet potato pie crust lying indiscriminately off the side of my saucer—melted vanilla ice cream trickling rhythmically onto the kitchen table. J remember a gentle pat on my behind as I lazily excused myself. The task of clearing the table was at hand. Dishes cleaned. Floor swept. Scraps set outside. The weekly struggle for the 'funny papers' commenced right on schedule. We fought like stray cats scrambling over who receives the first share of trash. I, often the first to retire from such play, sleepily rubbed my eyes-a cue to Grandma that the bed was calling. Stripped down to nothing but my beige, once white, T-shirt and Tuesday panties, although we always visited Grandma on Fridays, I grabbed Snoopy and created a deep burrow inside the hand-woven quilt once folded tidily at the end of grandma's bed.

I recollect the many times when he and I would welcome our grandchildren into our pleasant, yet quaint home. Josie was always the first to enter the kitchen, arms stretched wide to embrace Arthur and me after not seeing us for no more than a week. Duane, the second oldest child of Number Three, would carelessly peck us on the cheek and pass me, devoting all of his attention to the ballplayers on television. Yes, he was a growing young man eager to become a basketball player and to eat up all the fried chicken on my old nineteen-seventy-eight stove! Ahhh, yes. Now, there was always Esha; eyes gleaming and a smile as bright as the crescent moon in the evening. She insisted on climbing trees, playing with the rowdy dogs out back, and sitting rather unladylike at the table. Unlike her sister, Arthur and I agreed, she was an awkward girl often possessing the characteristics of a young boy. Needless to say, she was more apt to wrestle and rough house with Duane than Josie, a young woman taught the importance of etiquette by yours truly.

The smooth terrain of the paved city highway transforms quickly as I feel the jagged, rough gravel crush explosively underneath the tires. Relocated to a home settled deep into suburbia like an old pair of torn blue jeans donated to the goodwill, my grandmother, all five feet and six inches of her, lies placidly, protected by one of her very few possessions: an old tattered, white, cotton blanket from 1419 East Lane Street. For eighty-six years God has blessed her to live. But the latter of those years have been seized by Alzheimer's disease. Middle-aged, grown men in her mind are still ten and eleven year olds. My father, Number Three, is forty-six but would be unfamiliar to Mama Nobi, remembering him only as a child.

A twenty-inch television, three or four sets of clothes, Snoopy, and a dusty, half-century old, white King James version of the Bible are her only belongings. I gaze around her square, claustrophobic cubicle and I am overwhelmed with memories of how her life used to be. Privacy is not a necessity at Rosehaven. Gardening, a task Grandma thoroughly enjoyed, is simply out of the question. The tenants recline restfully in their rooms periodically escaping it to a larger, still- enclosed cubicle in which Bob Barker's voice can be distinctly heard. Vegetables. v.

Senile is how they would venture to characterize my state. Forgetful and incompetent are other words I hear them say. I lie here looking inquisitively at this young girl sitting at the edge of my bed. "Who is she?" I wonder. Her smile is very familiar. The voice although a bit more refined and confident reminds me of a granddaughter I once had. What happened to her? What was her name? And this woman calls me "Grandma," yet I do not remember her. She looks upon me with eyes full of wonder and her touch is so sincere. As she speaks to me, I think. I think of Arthur. I think of how he sacrificed his life to ensure my good health. I remember. I remember well. My love for him was great. I prayed that God would care for him. But lately I have forgotten. I have forgotten a great deal. Once I remember I have forgotten, I forget I have forgotten. It is all very confusing and the days go by so quickly. I have no memories of them.

My name is Zenobia High.