My grandmother kept her lips an unflinching shade of
“Hawaiian Red” for 50 years. She kept black and white photographs even longer,
and could always put her finger on any specific one when needed for proof
regarding a date, or a fashion, or the actual existence and appearance of a person discussed. She
kept silver squares of foil for a second or third use later, and kept the
swirlingly colored, bell-sleeved outfits she wore to weddings in the 70’s. She
kept lists, newspaper articles, in touch with people, track of people, a running
tally on the prices of things, promises, and every recipe she ever clipped. She
kept a Kleenex in her bra. And when I absolutely, positively, would NOT eat alligator, she kept trying.
It was one of many spring breaks spent in Florida with my
grandparents, and we had all spent the day in their backyard pool, smoothing
our way down the slide like purchased gumballs in a machine, eager to meet our
crashy, splashy end.
I had spent the day precariously contained in my 12 year old
food-adoring body’s worst nightmare: a bathing suit. My lack of interest or
knowledge in sports (at that age, anything requiring “going outside” was a sport, as far as I was concerned) had
produced a child with no muscle. My whole body represented the atrophy of a
summer broken arm, just released from its cast. Pale from a New York
