My grandma turned 95 today

“I don’t know what to do for her birthday.  It’s so hard to know what will be meaningful, and not overwhelming.”  My mom confessed to me over the weekend.  I made a plan to meet her at the nursing home in the morning, before I bring Oscar to daycare.  

We beat her there.  Walk back to Grandma’s room, but the door is shut and through the door I hear the voice of the aides helping to clean her and her bed.

We walk back to the front room, where my mom is pressing candles into a loaf of Coco’s pumpkin bread. When Grandma was still living at home, she would have us buy these for her by the dozen, to be stored in her freezer and eaten over a couple weeks.  

When we return to her room, my mom knocks and the aides are just finishing up.  Grandma is distressed, calling  “Janet! Don’t go!”  as my mom returns to us in the hall.

“I’m coming right back,” she tells her.

“It’s okay, Mom.” I say as she fumbles to light the candles.

“It’s okay, Ya-ya!” a little voice echoes. 

We walk in the room, singing happy birthday.  All relaxing a bit, as we focus on the warm light of the candles and Oscar’s eager face.  

“Will you help me blow them out?”  Grandma asks him and together they blow at the candles.  

She wants it cut a certain way.  Passes a few pieces to me.  And tells mom, she wants some, but not now.  Asks her to put it in the bottom drawer, which is full of her clothes and depends.  

I put my hand on her knee.  She turns to me.  “It’s so awful” she says, “when the shit comes pouring out and they are on the floor cleaning it.  And they get impatient with me.  Even the ones that like me.  Because they work long hours, I know.”  

A little while later:  “I want to recite a poem: A poem is a tree. But fools make schools, make fools like me.  But only God can make a tree.”

I move her table so I can give her a hug.  She holds on and exhales in my arms.  

Before we go she asks if we can help move her back to her bed.  Mom takes Oscar into the hall and I help Grandma walk to the bed. Lift her legs into the covers. Adjust her pillow.  Kiss her head.  

Trees 

By Joyce Kilmer, 1914

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.