I didn’t know why I kept looking at her, nor did she. If she asked me, I’d say nothing but she raised me and I love her.
Sitting on her favorite chair. Making up her veil, giving her green eye looks to everything, putting one leg over another like a beauty queen, those hand actions, which reflect how proud of herself she was. I always looked at her and kept wondering about the reason. Still asking about the reason until now. Why she left me to a tiny dark hole under the earth?
We had our small lamp in the house broken. My Aunt came up with a good idea: leaving the kitchen light on, for the sake of my old Grandma when she’s going to the bathroom at night.
One night I heard sounds outside my room as if my Grandma was going to fall. I got up out of my bed and rushed out of the room to find her in the corridor, moving, leaning on the wall while walking. The light came from her back where the kitchen is. Her hair, clouds waving upon her head. Her face, dark. I felt scared. Couldn’t help it. Just for a rushing moment I thought of all the zombie movies I’m too much of a coward to see. She kept moving like not seeing me and entered her room leaving me frozen.
When I’m looking at her face now, before the last washing to settle down to the grave. I remembered how that beloved face made me before.
I looked to that black and white photo. She looks so young and pretty, standing digging her cutting-eye looks into the viewer’s face. Her face changed before I was born to the shape I always knew. Not as fading but as lightness. She gave away her stunning huge breasts and fleshy ass – in the old sexy fashion. Nature took her fleshy face as well. Even those hard-eye looks are to be tender. I asked my Auntie again: was that really my Grandma? Auntie just gave me a tender look.
Once, there was a friend on the phone. She got the call and told him I was asleep. The guy was polite and didn’t forget to ask her about how life was treating her. She sighed and talked about the hard life. He was so polite to tell her sweet words. She felt thankful and didn’t forget to ask him a prayer for her sake. The guy was so polite again and said that may God give her whatever she wanted. I want to die, she replied.
I name it Pavarotti. A tomcat. When I first saw it coming from the tomb of its mother, I name it and so it became a He. I had never heard Luciano Pavarotti, but I always thought it was a lovely musical name. My Pavarotti hadn’t any musical tone because he didn’t mew-mew a lot. Usually sitting beside her, closing his green eyes down and giving us the gestures of wise men. He loved her and she loved him. Many times she waved him off her couch, but many other times she was just stroking his back and face saying how good a cat he was.
I loved them till I buried both; her with my eyes and him with my hands, just a few months after she left. Like my Pavarotti, didn’t want to cut the everlasting argument they carried on while sitting beside each other.