As I am sitting at my computer writing this, my heart is aching. My father has attempted to sew it back together with love and cake. But nothing will mend the scar. Nothing will erase the shattered memories and the lingering feelings of abandonment. And as I am typing, tears are streaming down my face. They thud against the keyboard rhythmically . . . pit-pat . . . pit-pat . . . pit-pat . . . it reminds me of the rain.
She promised to come to my ballet recital next week. She joked about bringing 50 rolls of film to my graduation. She said she could cry oceans at my wedding. She was going to spoil my children rotten. Now those promises are broken.
I remember asking my mother "Could you please buy me a new tutu for the recital?" She simply shook her head 'no', bent down to my ear and whispered "Sweetie, it's going towards your grandmother's treatment." I was shocked and disappointed. I did not understand. Someone gets sick and suddenly all the attention is focused on them? I was furious. I think I may have cursed her.
She promised to be home in a few days; saying it was a type of check-up and the doctor just needed to see how much youthfulness she had left. Why would it take a few days, I had wondered. My grandmother was a big kid at heart. She loved to laugh and play with my sister and I. She brought us toys and cooks about arts and crafts, and cooking. She taught us to make cupcakes, play games, and use our imagination. In my imagination my sister was a peasant, I was a princess, and my grandmother? She was a Queen, of course, who ruled the land of Imaginatia. At the end of a long day of fun, we always curled up in bed while she read us stories. The curiosity of my face gave away my question and she replied "Things are slow these days. But good things come if you wait." So I had waited and waited . . . but the promise was unfulfilled.
"Mom, you said the doctors were going to heal her, not our money" I responded, pouting and turning my 'please-buy-it-or-my-heart-will-break' face hoping the charm would work. It failed me; charms were no use those days. "Yes, the doctors will heal her. But they need money to buy the medicine" my mother replied, "I will fix your tutu for you and make it extra special for the recital." But my mother did not have my grandmother's hands. "Grandma would have done it better!" I said, and stormed out.
It was pink. It was too frilly. It didn't reflect my imagination. My grandmother promised to make my tutu. A colorful combination of pink and purple -- the color of the clouds in Imaginatia. The skirt of the tutu was going to be embedded with stars. I would be a faerie, flying and prancing on the stage . . . that promise was undone.
That didn't matter now. I quickly put my costume on and ran behind the curtains. I stuck my head out at the side and frantically searched for my grandmother in the audience. The other girls were laughing, cheering, joking among themselves. I envied them. One girl kept complaining about a sore knee no matter how many times the teacher said it was fine. I wanted to kick her. I wanted to jab my fist into that knee until she felt my pain. Her family was fine; laughing just as loud as her shrilling whines, as I kept looking for my grandmother.
"What's wrong?" asked my best friend.
"It's my grandmother -- she isn't here" I replied.
"Where is she?"
"At the hospital . . . she has a canker" I told her, tears beginning to steam down my face.
"A canker is for trees, stupid, your grandmother has cancer" said the complainer. Apparently her knee had stopped throbbing.
"Don't call her a tree, and don't call me stupid" I could feel my face reddening with anger. I wanted to push her off the stage.
My parents said the rehearsing had paid off; I was the epitome of poise and passion. My sister said she had seen better performances from cartoons. My grandmother did not say anything. She could not have said anything; she wasn't at the show. My father taped it for her but he had never shown it to her. The roller coaster of her recovery and the deterioration of her health had distracted him. The tape sits on a shelf beside the memories I have of my grandmother. Footage of her holding me when I was born, my first walk, my first day of school, my kindergarten graduation, my first marathon, my first recital . . . The only event together that we did not tape was when we learned she finally at peace . . . The rain mimicked our emotions.
She promised to live forever. She didn't break that promise -- the doctors did.
And as I recall these memories and look towards the heavens, I spot my calendar. I have drawn a pink heart on this date -- and on another date as well. Squinting at my scribbled writing, I can somewhat make out the event "Run for the Cure". October 5th. I will be joined by thousands of people as we run for awareness and hope. It seems as if we are going to run on clouds, alongside the ones who have suffered.
holiday50
Author's Note: This is a fictional story based impartially on my life.
