Crayons
L calls me junior, I call her Granny. My own Granny doesn't seem to mind. L busted up her arm in a fall a few years back and can no longer paint. She has oils all over her room from a time gone by, and photographs of many more. She told me about her fall and how they put pins in her arm, and about how when the staff at Deadwood had an art class they gave her both oils and watercolors at the same time. Knuckleheads.
I'm trying to clean up the old personal business as we pack up to head north. One of the things I promised myself I'd do was to get L some charcoal and newsprint. I think of it as crayons for seniors who used to be artists. I brought it to her today, and she was so flabbergasted that she repeated one of her old stories three times. She also showed me pictures of her and her husband posing by the old station wagon loaded down with camping gear. They were going fishing.
She's ninety-four, and I've never seen her frown. Her room is on the corner where two hallways meet and her door is always open. She greets people when they go by and she's not shy at all. At night when I'm wheeling Granny back to her room, we look in to see L dozing in her bed, head cocked in the direction of the TV. 'Night Granny. 'Night Junior.
