Mama's Release

It is the morning of my mother's release. Grandmama bustles around the kitchen like a little bird. Grandmama is never still, she's like a bird that has to keep on flying. She is always cooking, or cleaning, or talking on the phone or something. The only time she's still is when she falls asleep in front of the tv before she goes to bed. It's obvious she's nervous because she's moving around more than usual. I pick at my breakfast, uncomfortable in my dress and new shoes and irritable.

     "Stop playing with your oatmeal,young girl, just eat it."

     "Okay, Grandmama." I make little patterns with my spoon. I hate eating especially on this day.

     "Vic, mind you don't get any on your dress."

     "Yes, Grandmama."

     She sips her strong tea while standing at the sink, gazing at me over her cup. I glare at my bowl; I hate being looked at.

     "You look just like your mother did at your age. Skinny, quiet little thing. She was so sweet. Funny, how things can get ruined. Your mother was so innocent, too innocent really. That was probably my fault. And when she took up with that boy I should have known something wasn't right, but I just . . . . well, anyway . . . . "

     I don't say anything, preferring to create hills and valleys in my bowl of uji.

     She sighs. "Young girl, just put it in the sink and go on."

     "Yes, Grandmama."

     I go outside and sit on the front steps, waiting for Grandmama to finish getting ready. Sometimes it's hard for me to think about things in the moment. Like, now, I am thinking of how pretty Grandmama looked in the kitchen a few minutes ago, in her flowered dress, the light from the kitchen window touching her white hair. I am thinking about the years we've spent together, just her and me. It was nice, just the two of us. When I was younger, Grandmama would take me to the park for hours because she said that little girls need lots of sun to grow right. Like I was a plant or something. I am thinking about love, and utopia, and family and the aching hole inside. I wonder if my mother didn't get enough sun. Right now I want to know her, very badly. But I'm scared.