Visits from Grandpa
Memories of those who left come back unexpectedly. Their spirit spring from a box cracked open, covers pulled off a pile of old clothes, or even a room not visited before.
I checked into my hotel and took the elevator to the 12th floor. Slid the card in the door and pushed my luggage in. I threw everything on the second bed and made my way to the bathroom to wash up. After several trials, I found the right switches and turned on the lights. My eyes scanned the place - the tub, the sink, the shower and there seemed to be a second shower. How lavish... or is it for something else?
I stepped into the grand shower room, thinking it was bigger than my little alcove at home. Then I noticed the handicapped seat and bar to assist those who might be in a wheelchair.
The last time I had seen a set up like this was when my grandfather was in the hospital. He could not walk, he could not eat. Moving to take a bath was excrutiatingly painful for him. He was almost finished.
I turned off the lights, pulled the bathroom door behind me and went back into the suite. I called my brother to let him know that I arrived. He picked up the phone in a good mood. I asked him how he was doing and he said "I'm making pickles." I thought of my brother's tiny studio in Montreal and his mock kitchen embedded in the wall next to his living area. "How in the world do you find the space to do it?" I asked, imagining him surrounded by gallons of water, salt containers and pounds of cucumbers and tomatoes.
"I am managing," he said. "Since Grandpa can no longer make them, somebody needs to continue the tradition. " I thought back to the large jars of pickles we would carry back from my grandfather's house to ours in Istanbul. They lasted a whole winter. We always made sure to have a bite before dinner as mom set the table and protested saying that we were not going to have enough appetite for the actual meal.
When I understood that my grandfather was not going to get well, I wrote an entry into my diary titled "No More Pickles." I did not know then, but I would get unexpected visits from him. In a hotel room, over the phone from Montreal...in an ever evolving time capsule.
I checked into my hotel and took the elevator to the 12th floor. Slid the card in the door and pushed my luggage in. I threw everything on the second bed and made my way to the bathroom to wash up. After several trials, I found the right switches and turned on the lights. My eyes scanned the place - the tub, the sink, the shower and there seemed to be a second shower. How lavish... or is it for something else?
I stepped into the grand shower room, thinking it was bigger than my little alcove at home. Then I noticed the handicapped seat and bar to assist those who might be in a wheelchair.
The last time I had seen a set up like this was when my grandfather was in the hospital. He could not walk, he could not eat. Moving to take a bath was excrutiatingly painful for him. He was almost finished.
I turned off the lights, pulled the bathroom door behind me and went back into the suite. I called my brother to let him know that I arrived. He picked up the phone in a good mood. I asked him how he was doing and he said "I'm making pickles." I thought of my brother's tiny studio in Montreal and his mock kitchen embedded in the wall next to his living area. "How in the world do you find the space to do it?" I asked, imagining him surrounded by gallons of water, salt containers and pounds of cucumbers and tomatoes.
"I am managing," he said. "Since Grandpa can no longer make them, somebody needs to continue the tradition. " I thought back to the large jars of pickles we would carry back from my grandfather's house to ours in Istanbul. They lasted a whole winter. We always made sure to have a bite before dinner as mom set the table and protested saying that we were not going to have enough appetite for the actual meal.
When I understood that my grandfather was not going to get well, I wrote an entry into my diary titled "No More Pickles." I did not know then, but I would get unexpected visits from him. In a hotel room, over the phone from Montreal...in an ever evolving time capsule.
posted by Mimi Media @ 11:17 AM
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