i wish stories didn't always get told after they were finished. you hear bits and pieces along the way. chapters within the story. but not the whole book. that seems to only get told at the end, when everyone's gathered around sharing their portion. their memories.
that was this weekend, and the one before, after my grandmother died. many of them i knew, the stories. i was in a lot of them. the unruly child that refused to be tamed. the chocolate cakes and birthday wishes. cat scratches and skinned knees.
but of all of them, i think the one i loved hearing most, was the one at the end, both in telling and in life.
i don't think anyone really knows the the details of the beginning. i don't think she shared that part, out of modesty i'd guess. she loved my grandfather, never stopped, even when age made her stop changing the flowers on his grave every so often.
so, since no one knows, i'm going to give you my version. it's mostly factual. i just filled in the gaps.
Grandmother's Bingo Partner
when everyone grew up, they grew out. all the children and grandchildren going in their different directions. grandmother couldn't stand to be too still for too long. life had to move, have some purpose, some action, some something. so amongst the many activities that took over her time, from baking for the church, and sending cards to every sick person with a mailing address, she played bingo. weekly. the kind of bingo where people actually care about winning the prize, even if they don't totally care about the prize itself.
she was a spark, my grandmother, even if no longer the whole fire. so i guess i shouldn't be surprised that old age and poor site couldn't hide her from the smiling, elderly gentleman that came to sit next to her soon after she started attending.
i'm assuming, of course, that he had poor site. for all i know he had perfect vision. i don't think anyone knew that part, and i forgot to ask. not that it matters. it doesn't. so since it doesn't, let's give him bad vision.
it started with polite conversations and lots of smiles. modest smiles, deep with age, that form from years of experience. they aren't light, these, looking at shallow depths. these smiles have eyes that see your entire life in ways we youth can't even understand. he could probably know my heart and soul from the color of my socks and how far i pulled them up my calf.
but i'm losing you, i can tell. back to the story.
smiles. lots of smiles. that only grew wider and more permanent. then one day, standing over the prize table he asks, "what would you like. tell me what you want and i'll win it for you." like two teenagers at the fair. she pointed and smiled. he didn't let her down. a tradition was started. each week it was the same. they'd stand over the table and he'd deliver the same line with the same smile that she couldn't tire of. and he would win. he would always win. i think it's a testament to love. love rigged bingo, on some cosmic, this-shouldn't-happen-every-time, miracle level.
even in the end, when she was in pain, and words didn't want to leave her mouth. the phone would ring. his name would be called. her hand would extend. all she wanted was the phone. the voice didn't make the pain go away. it just helped keep the smile there.
he wasn't the whole smile. no one was. their were pieces for my mother, my dad. aunts and uncles. they were big pieces. along with grandchildren and friends, the world in general. everything was her smile, because she saw her children, her happy life in everything around her.
but he was the finishing touch. he was the last love in the last days that took that smile, and broke apart the lips to let the teeth gleam from behind.
***
it's beautiful isn't it? i won't cheapen it with morals and takeaways. it needs none. it is its own takeaway.
