Essay and Cover Letter #2: Mind The Gap

Essay #2: Mind The Gap (MindTheGap)

 

Orange.  Blue.  White.  Lots of white…

I can’t keep track of them anymore.  Our morning tea time has been reduced to nothing more than a marker of passing time.  Her skin seems more wrinkled than it was yesterday, her age evident even through a thick layer of makeup.

“A professional student, huh?  We had one of you in the family before,” she says, her piercing blue eyes fading quickly.

I smile as the words slip off of her tongue with distinct British inflection, allowing myself to travel back to the foggy skies of her childhood she has painted for me many times before.  The scent of lavender hand lotion rises into the air as she grips her cup of English tea, hands shaking ever so slightly.  She smiles.

“Yes Grandma, I know,” I reply, simultaneously returning her smile despite swallowing back a sudden rush of tears.

I am going to look just like her one day.

We have the same eyes.

—

Just a few years earlier, we had stepped off of a plane and walked the streets of Liverpool together.  We spent the first day posing my brother in front of statues for photographs and dropping into pubs for mid-afternoon shandies.  Our apartment for the week provided views of bright red double-decker buses flying down Stanley Street on the wrong side of the line; further outside, the evening mist rose over the River Mersey, leaving what lay beyond the shoreline a shadowed mystery.

The three of us collapsed onto the couch that night, our stomachs content with fish and chips and beer, our cheeks aching from hours of irrepressible laughter.  We slowly drifted towards sleep, allowing ourselves to be lost in thought as the muffled sounds of the city streets below played in the background.  Suddenly, Grandma sat up and looked right at me, her face pained with concern and confusion,

“Where are we, Cait?”

This was the first time it happened.

—

She hides the orange ones.  They make her nauseous, she says.  She hides them only to forget how they make her feel.  She then places them in the appropriate lettered bin for the next week.

Over and over again.

Orange.  Blue.  Lots of white…

—

It’s been hours since we sat down.  My thumb rolls over a stack of quarters as I eye my opponents up and down.  I decide that my pile is the biggest.  A grin spreads across my freckle-scattered face as I run my hand through my tangled mess of red curls, trying desperately to lay my hair flat like hers.

The cards start to fly again and I gather mine into a pile.  The cards are still too big for my hands and it takes me much longer than my grandparents to hold all five at the same time.

“The Queen and what follows.”

Another grin, bigger than the last one.  This game is my favorite.  It makes me feel more English, more connected to her.  She catches my eye and winks across the table, carefully setting the rest of the cards in the center of the table.

I want to be just like her when I get old.

—

I will never forget the blue of her eyes.

Even in the old sepia washed photos that line the crackling walls of her home, they stand out from the others.  They are pure, honest and always smiling.

Even when she can’t remember what she is smiling about.

—

It’s Wednesday.  Danny pulls up in front of her house, beeping his horn lightly as he drums his weathered fingers along the dashboard; a most charming escort, he has already called a few times this morning to make sure she knew what day it was.  I watch from a distance as my grandma emerges from the front door, dressed head to toe in her Sunday best, and greets him with a gracious smile.

Her beauty is timeless, flawless, well preserved.

I wrap my scarf tight around my face, trying to remember every detail of the scene being played out before my eyes.  The royal blue of the her church jacket.  The reflection of the winter sun on her pearl earrings.  The excitement on her face to be taken out to the senior club at this time every week.

She remembers.

I place this memory with the others.  Grandma standing next to a dashing young American in uniform who would one day bring her home with him.  Grandma perched behind a row of siblings, the oldest and strongest of the lot of ten.  Grandma caught by surprise dancing at a family wedding.

Her smile has never changed.  At least that part of her is still there.

—

My hair will turn white as I get older, because that’s what happens to redheads.  The strange thing about us is that the gene skipped a generation and I ended up the only grandchild with her distinguishing auburn locks and light eyes.

The thought of my mind fading to white noise is absolutely terrifying.  It runs in the family, you know…

—

“It’s a shame that this one is a lesbian.  She’s got such a pretty face.”

My heart stopped at the injection of conversation into the mindless afternoon ritual of talk shows and tea.  I take a deep breath and exhale slowly as I feel the blood begin to race to my cheeks.

“She likes women, Grandma.”  The statement, just barely audible, escapes my lips, traversing the length of the couch and fading into its woven threads as the room returns to silence.

“But she could have such a nice fella. I don’t understand.”

A lump in my throat rises as tears begin to fill my eyes again.  I become suddenly grateful that the blinds are blocking any trace of the afternoon sunlight, casting shadows on the shame plastered across my face.

A round of justifications fires through my mind:

She’s just set in her ways.

Things are different now.

But why bother?

She doesn’t know.

I’ve never told her.

She won’t remember anyway.

—

Orange.  Blue.  White.  Lot of white…  Tan.

There’s a new color in the box this week.  We read the dosage together before the weekly sorting tradition begins.  I feel my pulse heighten with the placement of each pill.

“I have to get to class soon, do you need anything?”

A lie. My reason to escape, to clear my mind.  I finish my last sip of tea and start to pack up my books.  Our eyes, mirror images, meet over the old kitchen table.

“A professional student, huh?  We had one of you in the family before.”

 

 

 

Cover Letter: MindTheGapCL

Dear Reader,

Upon reflecting on what I wanted to write about for this second essay, I found that the ability of the author to manipulate time and point of view with paragraph and section breaks would be a strong style choice to express my feelings about a situation that I deal with on a day-to-day basis.  For the past few years, my grandma has been losing her memory due to Alzheimer’s, and being close to her, I felt the need to write down and remember how I feel about it right now.

I think that the biggest asset to this piece is the use of section break.  I wanted the piece to feel a bit scattered and bounce between reflection sections and short stories from my past with my grandmother.  I wanted to make it clear that parts of her have stayed the same from story to story though her memory has faded.  Is it difficult for you as the reader to follow the jumps between sections?  I want it to be slightly confusing and disorienting, but not to the point where it is hard to read…

She has an intricate personality, with the small details making her who she is, and I tried to capture a few throughout the writing process.  I have read and revised this draft a few times already because I want to remain true and accurate to her essence, but have found it impossible to capture everything that is her.  Does the character of my grandmother seem complete and relatable, or are there pieces missing?

My favorite part of this piece is the section about playing cards with my grandparents at their kitchen table.  I thought it was interesting to try to write as a small child and make it clear to the reader without being explicit.  It was fascinating to sit for a few minutes and just reflect on the situation, like a fly on the wall trying to remember the smallest details of the room and the game.  I flipped through some old pictures as inspiration and really tried to revert back to seven year old me.

Thanks for reading!

Hutch