“Who are you?” Grandma stares at us with furrowed eyebrows Our memories define who we are. They are the things that tie us to meaningful places as well as to the people we have loved. Memories are a part of us. So who are we without them? Who are we with nothing but lost, scattered memories? Who is my grandma? * * * The car ride to the retirement home is short. Dad parks the car right up front in between a black jeep and a red pickup truck. He turns to me with a thin smile. “Ready, honey?” I nod and get out of the car and can feel the thick heat bouncing onto my face from the sun. The fresh scent of flowers dances in the air and tickles my nose playfully. With hands clasped together, Dad and I walk up the steps to the large white retirement home. We push open the heavy glass doors, allowing the air conditioning to cool me down from the summer heat outside. I see Patty at the front desk and smile. She looks up happily and waves us over with bright eyes. “How are you today?” she asks from her swivel chair. “We’re doing good,” Dad replies. I grab a mint from the glass jar sitting on top of the desk. “How’s my grandma?” I ask as I unwrap the mint and plop it into my mouth. She gives me a reassuring smile and places a lock of black hair behind her ear. “She is doing well. I’m sure she will be very happy to see you both.” “Thanks, Patty,” Dad says as we begin to walk towards another set of glass doors. We push the doors open and enter a large room. One side of the room is filled with nice leather couches occupied by elders squinting at the television in the corner, and the other has corkboards filling the wall of the different activities occurring this month. Dad and I pass by old people mingling within the retirement home, canes and walkers in hand. We pass by an old woman wearing large glasses with white hair pulled back into a bun. “Hello!” She smiles and waves. I don’t know who this woman is, but I smile and wave back. Dad has always told me that I should do this. He tells me that living in places like this can be sad. Living here can remind you of your limitations. And sometimes the families of those living here don’t even bother to visit—they don’t even say hello. If I ever had to live in a place like this, I would be sad, too. We walk down a red-carpeted hallway with doors on both sides leading into bedrooms. Names are written in a slot next to each door in thick black letters of those who live here. At the end of the hall we stop. The door to Grandma’s room is wide open, and I can feel a humid breeze. Dad walks in first, looking concerned, with me following from behind. Usually Grandma’s door is shut tight when we come to visit. I can see Dad’s shoulders relax in front of me and feel mine do the same. Grandma is sitting in her wooden rocking chair by the corner in front of an open window. I puzzle at this for a moment. Grandma never has her window open, either. But I shake the thought off quickly to put on a smile for her. “Who are you?” Grandma stares at us with furrowed eyebrows. “Hi, Mom.” Dad takes a seat in the other wooden rocking chair next to Grandma. “It’s me, Daniel, your son.” “Oh, Daniel!” Her face lightens up and produces a wrinkled smile. “And this is your granddaughter, Maggie,” he says as he gestures to me. “Hi, Grandma!” I say as I take a seat on her neatly made bed. She puts a delicate hand to her pale cheek. “I didn’t know that I had a grandchild…” My heart aches for a moment as I look at her. Grandma’s faded blue eyes show nothing. There is no sign of recollection at all. “That’s OK, Mom.” Dad takes her hand into his. “Maybe you don’t recognize her. She probably looks different…” Dad frowns suddenly and looks down at Grandma’s hand. “Dad, what’s wrong?” I straighten up and try to read his face. He looks back up at Grandma in panic. “Mom, where’s your ring?” Grandma blinks. “What ring?” “Your wedding ring, Mom,” Dad speaks louder, “the one that your husband gave to you?” She shakes her head. “I don’t understand.” Dad rummages quickly through her dress pockets, fishing out nothing but tissues. He turns to me with a stern look. “Maggie, go push the employee assistance button,” he says quickly. I nod and run to the bedroom door. Next to it on the right side is a large red button with bold letters underneath it saying Employee Assistance. I push it urgently. And then, after waiting only a second more, I push it again. Suddenly Alex, one of the employees, walks in. “Do you need…” he begins. Dad cuts him off. “Her wedding ring. It’s not on her!” Alex’s eyes grow behind his glasses as he lets his mouth hang open. “I need help finding it!” Alex nods quickly and stumbles into the room. “Yes, of course.” Dad turns to me briefly. “Maggie, sit down next to her, OK?” I rush over to Grandma and take a seat next to her in the wooden rocking chair. We both watch in a blur as they rummage through the drawers and shelves. Dad and Alex go through her bin of dirty clothes and delicately turn over each dress and each pair of pants to make sure the ring couldn’t be hidden inside them. They rip off the sheets of what was once her neatly made bed and even crawl around on the floor, looking under everything. I turn to Grandma and wonder
March/April 2014
A Home for Barney
We chatted together about everything, from baby goats to gardens It was a beautiful spring morning. My irises and daisies were beginning to bloom. The crepe myrtles had put on their finest display, and pink flowers littered my driveway. It was a perfect day in North Carolina. I stepped out of the house and got into my old truck. Slowly, I drove the few miles to the Carl Sandburg home. On the way up the hill, I met one of my fellow workers, Amy. We chatted together about everything, from baby goats to gardens. We reached the goat barn and went through the gate. “I’m so excited, Christy,” Amy told me. “You know Jenny?” I nodded. Jenny was the head worker. “Mmm hmm?” “Well anyway, she sent me an email this morning saying that a few of the goats gave birth last night!” “Great!” I exclaimed. We hurried inside the barn. “Christy, Amy, come over here,” Jenny called. We ran over to her. Jenny was holding Nellie, one of our goats, still. “She’s having trouble with her babies,” she told us solemnly. Amy and I looked at each other. We bent down and struggled with Nellie. An hour later we had a thin baby goat in our laps. “Only one?” Amy asked. “That’s unusual.” Jenny gently took the kid from me and examined it. “It’s very weak and sickly,” she noted. “He needs food.” She tried to urge Nellie to nurse her child. The goat turned around and refused to. “She’s shunning her baby because he’s so sick!” I cried in despair. “We’ll have to bottle-feed him,” Amy realized. “Christy, I’m putting you in charge of this little guy,” Jenny said. She handed me the goat. “But… but,” I stammered. “I’ve got to go check on the other goats. Come on, Amy.” Amy gave the kid one last glance before following Jenny out of the barn. I gently adjusted the little fellow and coaxed the nipple of a bottle into his mouth. He finished the milk in a few minutes and then snuggled against me. I smiled and stroked his soft brown back. He had found a new mother. Two weeks passed since the goat’s birth, and he still had never left the barn. He also still remained without a name. Jenny had left him in my responsibility, so I figured that I was supposed to name him. But none of the names I picked for him suited him. I tried Ginger, but he wasn’t fiery. He was calm and dependent. Fuzzy didn’t quite fit him. I asked visitors for ideas and came up with Little, Quiet, Sam, Cinnamon, and Chocolate. One day, as I was trying to think of a name, one of the workers, Marla, came in. I had never been very fond of her, as she wasn’t the brightest creature on earth. She stood leaning against the doorway of the barn. Finally she said, “Barney.” “What?” I looked up. “Barney. Name him Barney. He’s never left the barn, has he? So name him Barney.” She left the doorway and walked outside. I pondered the name. It suited him. He had never left the barn. It wasn’t too big or grand. It was tiny and quiet. Like him. “Barney,” I whispered. “Your name is now officially Barney.” Barney gave something in between a squeal and a whinny. “You like it? Huh? You like it?” I laughed, and rolled over in the hay with Barney on top of me. “What’s goin’ on?” Marla asked. I smiled. “Thanks for the name, Marla,” I said. She shrugged. “Sure.” Although she wouldn’t admit it at the time, I knew that we had both found a new friend. * * * The weeks passed. Marla and I shared the responsibility of taking care of Barney. He became more curious, and once even ventured out of the barn. However, he still remained sickly. Jenny was afraid that when he grew up, he might pass along these sick genes. One day, she told me and Marla, “We’re going to have to neuter him. We can’t risk having a herd of sick goats.” I looked at my feet. “All right.” I couldn’t bear to watch. “You can take a break,” Jenny said, “both of you. You’ve worked so hard. Let’s give you each a week-long break, all right?” We nodded. As we walked to the parking lot, Marla said, “I’m really sorry.” I shook my head. “At least he’ll live,” I said. The week seemed years to me. Every second of the day, I worried about Barney. At night I tossed and turned. On the morning of the seventh day, I rushed over to the barn. Jenny met me. “Where’s Barney?” I gasped, seeing that his usual spot was empty. “I put Kate in charge of him for now.” My heart sank. “Oh.” “Don’t worry,” Jenny reassured me. “You’ll get him back soon. I know that you’re doing great with him. For now I need you to take care of Mocha.” My shoulders sagged. Mocha was a stingy goat, about Barney’s age. She had sprained her ankle a few weeks back, and though it had healed, it still bothered her. She would often stand in the corner and nip anyone who came too close to her. “OK.” I slowly approached Mocha with a handful of grain. I held it out to her. Instead of enjoying this rare treat, she backed away from me and eyed me suspiciously. I sighed. Suddenly I heard a familiar nicker. “Barney!” Kate was holding a squirming Barney in her arms. She brought him to Jenny. “Barney’s impossible,” she said. “He hasn’t been like this all week!” Jenny smiled. “He sees Christy. Kate, how ’bout you take care of Mocha and Christy takes care of Barney?” Relieved, Kate handed Barney over to me. I hugged him to my chest. “You’ve been such a good mother to Barney,” Jenny said. I glowed. “Thank you.” Jenny continued. “You’ll soon be saying goodbye to
Blue Petals of Hope
I walked home with the poster for the spring musical heavy in my arms. I looked at it again, hoping that I had seen it wrong. Nope. The block letters were still dominating the page, telling me once again that I didn’t want to perform this spring. “Finding Broadway,” it said, “A Musical Without Words!” There wouldn’t be any lines, just solos. Just singing, which was my least favorite part of the play. I had done the spring musicals for a couple of years now, running in the fall and hanging out with my friends in the spring. This year it seemed that I was going to be out of the loop, skipping the play. It was a new thing to me. I entered my front door, kicked off my sneakers, and headed to the kitchen for a snack. I was halfway through my bowl of cereal when my mom walked in, having finished her email upstairs. “What’s that?” she asked, pulling the playbill from my arms before I could snatch it away. “Oh,” I said, looking down, “that’s the spring musical the school’s doing this year. I thought it looked kinda boring.” “Hmmm,” she replied, looking thoughtful. “Only singing. Interesting. I didn’t know you liked singing.” “I don’t,” I said. “I’m not sure about the play this year.” “But honey,” she interrupted, “you always do the plays!” “I know,” I sighed, “I’ll think about it.” I finished my cereal in silence and put my bowl in the sink. As I walked into the hallway, my hand reached for the phone. Maybe if I didn’t do the play, I would be like the flower “I think I’ll call Ellie,” I said to no one in particular. My fingers dialed the number before I even put the phone to my ear. It rang and rang, but Ellie never answered. I left a message, telling her to call me. If I truly didn’t want to do the play, I wouldn’t be seeing much of my friends for the next few months. My dad stopped me on my way outside. He looked me in the eye for a few seconds before talking. “You look stressed,” he said. “Yeah,” I replied, “I know.” “What’s going on?” he asked. I waited before answering. “I’m not sure if I want to do the play this year. But all my friends will.” “There’s always running, you know,” he added. My dad has been trying to get me to join the track team for years. I always decline, because of the spring play, but I guess he thought this year was a possibility. “None of my friends do track,” I said. “That doesn’t matter,” he said. “You’ll make new friends.” “Right,” I replied. I hadn’t made a new friend since second grade. “Remember,” he called over his shoulder as he walked up the stairs, “follow your heart, not someone else’s.” The door slammed shut as I walked out onto the porch. My mind was full of swirling thoughts. I wanted to do the play because all my friends were doing it. I had never done track before. I wouldn’t know anyone there. I wouldn’t have any friends. I would be a loner. But I didn’t want to do the play because there would only be singing. I would hate my afternoons. I would be miserable for the next two months. I still hadn’t calmed down after a half hour of sitting on the grass. My mind would not clear, and all I could do was stare at the flowers. After fifteen more minutes had passed, I moved to get off the lawn. One of the flowers caught my eye. It was a bluebell, its petals blooming out towards the bright sunlight. It was about five feet away from the rest of the bluebells, which were only partway open. In my mind, I saw the poor flower as me, a loner by myself on the track team. But I also saw how happy the flower was, blooming larger than all its cousins in the shade. Maybe if I didn’t do the play, I would be like the flower. By myself, yet surrounded by happiness in what I was doing. I got up abruptly, all the blood rushing to my head. I had made my decision. I would join the track team. * * * The first day of track practice was Monday. After the bell had rung, I grabbed my stuff and ran down to the gym. The locker room was full of kids, excitedly changing and talking. I pushed my way to the back of my locker row and quickly put on my gym clothes. I ran upstairs to the gym and sat down on the stage. There was no one else to talk to. All of the other girls were with the friends they had signed up with and were giggling all around me in their little groups. I sat on the stage with my head down, feeling sorry for myself. Why had I ever chosen to do this? “Track!” came a voice. “Get off the stage and come over here!” It was our coach, who was also our PE teacher. “Hello,” he said, once we had all gathered around him. “My name is Coach Anderson.” Whispers were heard, like a small hissing noise had suddenly started in the gym. I was completely silent. “I hope you all enjoy track today. I think we should start with some warmups,” he continued. Everyone spread out with their friends, as Coach Anderson led us through some stretches. My legs felt tight. Running seemed impossible. “OK,” he called, “let’s do some running! Eighth graders, lead the way!” The older kids pushed to the front of the group and started to run around the school. Our school was pretty big, and by the time we got back to the gym my heart was pounding and my legs ached. I wanted to go home, but Coach Anderson had different ideas. “I
