by Patricia Tatum

Created on: August 30, 2009

I watched Grandma walking towards the kitchen. She moved slower than the last time we were here, but she still moved with a purpose. I looked for signs of disorientation or forgetfulness, but no, she knew exactly what she wanted and exactly where to find it. At ninety-two, she was one tough cookie.

I looked over at my sister and I saw the same grin on her face that I had. Watching Grandma walk was great fun. Of course, you had the primary function of one foot after the other and movement in the proper direction. This basic motion was accompanied by a kind of whispering whoosh-whoosh that matched her feet step by step, and was produced by the easy-care, elastic-waist, poly-cotton blend slacks she wore.

Every fourth step, Grandma would sort of poosh air out through her lips, as if it refused to leave unless she gave it a nudge. Step, step, whoosh, whoosh, poosh. Step, step, whoosh, whoosh, poosh. Something still missing. Ah yes, the poot. The only part of her walk that did not strictly follow the music, much like the cannons in the 1812 Overture. It was your classic passing of the gas, a pffft, which was lady-like and never unpleasant. Step, step, whoosh, whoosh, poosh. Step, step, whoosh, whoosh, (pffft), poosh.

I thought about how many times I had found myself in this exact moment; the two sisters grinning at each other, waiting for Grandma to get her cup of tea and join us for girl talk. We might get a giggle watching her, but it was never mean. This was our favorite person in the whole world, bar none.

Grandma settled into her favorite chair with a huge sigh. "I'll tell you something," she said. "Don't get old. It's no fun." I wondered if the alternative was any better, but I wasn't going to ask. I didn't like thinking about it, but her options were starting to narrow down a bit. Getting old was something she had already accomplished, and the alternative was more than just a vague notion. I asked her if she still had a cleaning lady; things were looking a bit dusty.

"I had this one girl, a nice, white girl who lived in the trailer park over by the elementary school, but she got sick. I haven't found anyone yet to replace her."

As soon as the words "nice, white girl" came out, I involuntarily cringed. My generation is so politically correct, and anything remotely resembling racism made me very uncomfortable. No matter how bad it sounded, though, I knew it wasn't the same thing at all. Grandma was from a different place and time, that's all. She didn't have

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