37 / 145
37
The Vine Vase
Phoebe Whittfield
It’s been 5 years since Gran was diagnosed. Dementia is slowly eating
her alive. Her grey curls cover her chocolate brown eyes. Gran’s
skinny figure is slumped down on the couch, her hand moving with
hesitation up to her chapped red lips as she takes a sip of her tea.
I placed the sunset pink tulips into the tall, skinny glass vase
mum gave her. It is carved with vines that are swirling around it.
Her memory was getting worse. I remember her doctor mentioning
it could get as bad as her not remembering how to talk, eat, drink or
breathe.
The thought of Gran not being around for much longer scares
me and I try to escape the thought from my busy 16 year old mind,
but sometimes I fail to do so.
“Hey Gran. How’re you doing?”
“Hi Charlie, I’m doing great. Could yo–.” She kept talking but I
stopped listening.
First of all, my name isn’t Charlie and with this response, she is
not doing great. She’s getting worse.
Gran took another sip of tea and looked at me, expecting me to
do something. She must have asked me to clean her room like the
last time I visited which was probably last month.
“ Um, Gran, I’m not Charlie, I’m Kaylee. Your grand-daughter.”
I can feel my face tense with worry because I can see her
expression turn from her regular happy self, to a confused and
uncomfortable look as her brown eyes wonder around the vintage
wallpapered walls and furniture and her worry lines appearing on
her forehead.
“Oh, sorry dearie. My mind has been playing up on me these last
few years. So, how is school?” Gran took another sip of tea.
“Fine.” I said.
I’m getting a little bit impatient, but I stay for as long as I can.
Silence kills the normal chatter of our monthly visits. I look down
at my blue and white spotted watch, which reads 3:20.
“Um, Gran. I better get going.”
She looks into my pale ocean blue eyes, as if she can see right
through me, but still waves her wrinkly hand, her long fingernails
painted a strawberry red and replies,
“Okay dearie. See you next time.”
Gran then smiles her crusty crooked smile back at me as I step
outside. The air smells as fresh as a daisy. As I walk down the street,
8