Drown·ing [droun’ing]
verb
Christina Lafortune I don’t have a lot of memories. It’s something about the way my brain tries to compartmentalize, but most things about who I was before a certain age are covered in a film not unlike TV static. Something I do remember though, no matter how long it’s been, is my great grandma. Or Granma Islande as she has come to be known. My earliest memory of her is the day we moved into her tiny apartment. I was sitting in the car, pressed in on both sides by my brothers who couldn’t yet write their names. Every so often, I’d have to maneuver so that their heads were resting on my shoulders instead of rolling around like rag dolls. I have no idea how long we were driving for, but the sun had gone down, and my mom yawned in the front seat. The quiet hum of our red minivan navigating highways lulled me in and out of sleep. Eventually the car slowed to a stop and there it was, at the top of the biggest hill I’d ever seen, this series of small brick-and-mortar squares lit only with a porch light flickering desperately for release. Granma was standing on her stoop, wrapped in a quilted blanket that was much too big for her frail body. We all hobbled out of our seats and started the obligatory cheek kisses common in our culture. At that point, she was a stranger to me. She of course knew all about me. My mother would constantly send her photos of me in the mail as Granma couldn’t exactly get the hang of a phone. I only learned about her through the small trinkets I found in every room. Old toys, a very strange statue of a cherub by the sea, or the glass case full of perfumes. She had mementos of people I would never know. She was a guide for the lost souls before us. A lantern-bearer in the river Styx. I never could have anticipated that behind those owl-eye glasses was a firecracker of a woman. The first night in the house, she put on some music and danced with us as we unpacked. She grabbed my mother by the hand, her cane abandoned on the side of a chair, and they swayed as if they’d never been apart. The too many candles on the dining table shone in her eyes and reflected back at me the story of our ancestors. Of names long forgotten and love stories Cleopatra could only hope to compete with. Granma very quickly evolved into my safe space. I remember countless days spent coming home from school and immediately falling asleep on the plastic-covered couch
by the door. I’d wake up, peeling myself from it, with the memory of the folds on my cheek and the smell of mayi moulen ak sòs pwa and too-sweet flowers surrounding me. Even now when I rub my fingers together, I can feel myself running my hands over the clear vinyl, trying to remember just what it was that happened in my dream. I could see myself reflected back in the material, glaring and confused. Maybe that’s why the plastic was there. So we could see ourselves and be reminded of our humanity. Our struggles. Our piece of different. I would push myself up, arms shaking (The one thing I maintained is that I am still incredibly weak-armed), and turn around to see the door wide open. We didn’t live in a particularly dangerous neighborhood, but it wasn’t exactly safe either. A couple bikes missing here and there, but never anything serious. Granma didn’t mind that it was the peak of summer, or that the kids with the paintball guns were out, or that a stray bee would fly in every so often (this is, funnily enough, how I found out I was allergic to bees), her door was open to everyone. Tupperware bowls would fly in and out of the kitchen as she attempted to feed everyone within the row housing. She was unstoppable… until she wasn’t. When Granma Islande went into surgery thinking about her felt like waves, crashing against my skin and pulling me out to sea as the shore disappears from view. While you’re under, it’s almost peaceful, but as you breach the surface, all the sounds come back. All the feelings. Whether or not you want them. You think to yourself for a split second that you may be drowning. You wonder if you should just let go. I’d always feel terrible after that thought. That if the end would only come, I could feel better. I wouldn’t have the wind knocked out of me every time I thought about the what-ifs. And then you’re under again. The reality of the situation once again unavoidable. I hated the smell of the hospital. I didn’t always. In fact, there was probably a time where I found it comforting. Visiting hours have a way of doing that to people. Making them hate the “hospital smell”. I think it’s because we need something to be upset about. It can’t be another person; there’s no evil villain that came to thwart our plans. It can’t be the hospital itself; they’re doing everything they can to help. So, it’s the smell. There was no part of her there. I
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