Eric McCollom: story fragment

This multicolored spool of thread in my palm belongs to my grandmother. Well, now I suppose I have to say it used to belong to her. Funny how, in a blink, present tense becomes past. She used those strands of thread, the very same ones currently in my palm, to fix lost buttons and attach patches to torn knees. Grandmother's house always smelled of cinnamon, and I imagine I smell the spice on the spool now. Or maybe it's my imagination.

Grandmother insisted we call her, "Grandmother"; she was never "Grandma," "Granny," or "Nana" like my friends' grandparents. She was Grandmother. I never knew why she insisted on such formality. I always assumed it be rude to ask, and so I did not. In hindsight, there was a lot I never asked Grandmother about.  

She was a warm, loving woman, who doted in my sister and me. Her house was always stocked with root beer and twizzlers, and she begged us to to tell he about school, friends, sports, our lives. And the weird thing is, we did. We told her. We told her things we never told our parents. We told her about Mr. Crowley's impossible exams, and how half the class cheated on the last one. We told her how Mr. Walton fell asleep during class, and how Mr. Thompson always had bad breath, and how creepy the janitor was when he lingered outside the bathrooms. And she never judged us. She would quietly listen, and nod, as if she had heard this one before.

Mostly, she loved when we asked her questions. What were cars like when you were little, Grandmother? No cell phones at all, Grandmother? Why don't our cousins look like us, Grandmother? She would smile at each of them, pause to collect her thoughts, before releasing a flowing answer as if in a single exhale. There was just one thing we were not allowed to ask her: whatever happened to Grandpa.

Grandmother lived alone, and she drank heavily, but never around us. A rack of knives hung over the dish washer in the kitchen, and she could often be seen sharpening them despite the fact she never cooked for us.