Rejecting The Gift

Short Story

Grandmother

My grandmother fed any and everyone who ever stepped foot onto her property. The holes in the zinc roof, the rotting wood of the outdoor kitchen, and the scarred and unkempt mongrel outside did not turn guests off. On any given day at any given hour, you could find her in the kitchen brewing tea from leaves she picked at 6 am that morning, prepping meats, scrubbing, and scrubbing the ashy-looking wood where she made magic happen.

Somewhere between the picking and the prep she managed to put together meals that slid into your nostrils as you walked by. I had smelt it many times and let my foot lead me to her arms of brown titanium. I let her pluck pieces of meat off and pop them into my mouth. She fed me and I let her. I would open my mouth like a baby bird and chirp vibrations of pleasure at the magic heat created when applied to herbs and spices.

My grandmother died when I was 11. Her wake lasted 5 days, 3 of which were before she was buried. Each day was a progression of a chord of praise for her life. Neighbors brought goats, pigs, cases of beer, and whiskey. At steady intervals, people spoke blessings over her and sent her off with the kindness she showed them in life.

“Estelle fed me and my two children for three weeks straight after I lost my job. She never made me feel like a bother. She’d show up every day at 2 pm and say she ‘cooked a lil extra’ and thought of me and the children. If I attempted to refuse she’d leave the meal on the stump of the tree in my yard where I, or the children, would see it. She will be missed. She will be loved. She will be remembered.” -Bertha 65, widow of 30 years

“That wild woman knew how to have a good time. I never knew someone so old could move their bones like her you know. She knew how to have a good time and was always buying me a drink at the Friday dance. May she be merry in the afterlife. May she know she was loved.” Jerl 71, classmate and friend, notorious drunk

“Estelle… ESTELLE you cannot be dead. You cannot have died.” sobs rack the body of Mr Johnson, 69, former lover, and part-time handyman. His big belly trembles with each sob. His son comes over and cocoons his father in a warm embrace

“I loved her. I’ve always loved her… She deserved better in this life. She deserved better for herself. She was so busy, so busy giving to all of you that sometimes she forgot to give to herself. May she receive and never be forced or inclined to give in the afterlife.” Georgina, 34, my mother

The mongrel howls over the drums as if giving a eulogy for his beloved Estelle. When we bury her I pocket some of the dirt and bring it to him. I think he appreciates it but the grief and empty kitchen must be too much. He dies 14 days later a sad and quiet death. We bury him near the mint bush under the outdoor kitchen where he spent so much time licking at her ankles and begging for food. Whenever I see mint I think of his body marred and yet loved by the ever-giving Estelle.

My grandmother was kind and it killed her.

Mother

My mother did not know how to say no to the men in her life. Where my grandmother gave to friends and family she gave to lovers. Attention, money, even little pieces of her dignity were wrapped, sometimes hastily, but always eagerly wanting to please wanting to fulfill always… always for them.

There was Emil who she loved for 3 years and 70 days (according to her).

“I loved that stingy fucking bastard. He was as stingy with his love as he was with his money but damn did he know what to say to make a woman melt.” - overheard via phone call one Sunday afternoon

Marlan was a year of cheap champagne, vomit on the kitchen floor, and money swiped from purses.

“That greedy fucker. I hope he rots in the lowest piece of hell and is force-fed shit. Who steals from their women?” - overheard at 9 pm on Tuesday from my bedroom while her best friend poured her another glass of wine

Peter, well, Peter was alright. He was 4 years of relative stability. I never heard the story about the end of that one but she stayed for 3 weeks curled up in a ball pretending to be whole. I could see her arms squeezing against her rib cage trying to keep herself together. He didn’t steal her money. He stole the spine of brown titanium and persistence my grandmother gifted her.

“There’ll be another, there’s always another,” I whisper to her in the room that smelled that sour smell of depression. I squeeze her body into mine. That is how I learned skin-to-skin contact is kintsukuroi for the human spirit. I put her together with bits of the brown titanium she has gifted me.

There has and still is always another. I see the way each leaves having chewed through her like spiritual termites. I hope giving does not kill my mother.

Me

I am my grandmother’s mirror in the kitchen. I have begun to master the art of heat, herbs, and spices. I move like mango leaves blowing in tropical storm breeze; an ode to her memory. I prep the oxtail for the pot. Let it marinate in seasonings that drag me by the nostrils. I go shower while it does its dance in the pot. Even there the aroma finds me a violent seductive scent. I want to drown in it.

I strip naked and think of Duane and me at 16. We are two bodies under the papaya tree whispering salacious things. I press breasts too small into his wide firm chest. He presses my back into the tree. He stares at me with hesitation, fear, hunger, asking for permission. I smile a shy smile and nod. He kisses me too softly and then too hard. There is too much tongue and too much spit and why does no one ever tell you how gross tongue kissing can be?

I guess it’s normal so I am gross right back eventually we stop and are breathing hard and he pulls out a condom. I can’t meet his eyes. It’s the nerves. It’s the grossness of it all. I see it then the mint bush and I think of the marred mongrel and I think of his love for Estelle. I am not inclined to give anything. There, under the papaya tree, I decide I never have to give anything to anyone not even Duane who waits for me every morning before school and is always polite.

In the shower I let the water dampen brown titanium. I think of when I had to coax my mother into the shower. I think of washing her hair, wiping her face moisturizing tree bark skin. It is the final layer of lacquer of my kintsukuroi. I have a gift that is not giving. After the shower, she makes me porridge. It’s the first meal she’s made in almost 10 days. She is feeding me and I ask for seconds. She smiles and it is as if there is gold between the spaces of her teeth.

In the kitchen, I rub my tongue against my teeth. Stir the bottom of the pot of oxtail made for one. There is so much space here in my kitchen and so I stretch expanding and demanding it as mine. I scrape the bottom of the pot once more, add my final touches, the way my mother taught me and her mother taught her. I fill my bowl and sit in the quiet comfort of their essence pumping through me. There is no man at this table. There are no neighbors either. There is my deep pleasure, their everlasting love, the memory of the mint bush, and me.

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I originally did not like this piece but I managed to find its rhythm and I am so glad I didn’t abandon it. I think it’s so beautiful and I hope you enjoyed it too. I hope it made you think of your loved ones and the things they gave you or the things you refused to receive from them. I think often of how I existed in my mother within my grandmother. I think often of how much both women give and give and how much I am the opposite to them in some ways. I also think about how much like them I am in other ways.

This one I wrote for

Amy Gabrielle

TELL ME:
What gifts have you refused from your loved ones real or metaphorical? Which line(s) was your favorite? What gifts would you like to pass on to others real or metaphorical?

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Read some of my other pieces here:

1. Cooking With Seawater
2. Smiling With No Teeth
3. A Bun In The Wormhole
4. Humbleness Is A Luxury I Can't Afford
5. Love Can Be Quiet Too