Grocery day with Nana
She ambles up to the first available grocery cart.
"Emily? Where'd you go? Oh, here..." handing me her list, she places one unsure foot in front of another, and we begin our trek up and down so many grocery store aisles.
The first stop is to the bread counter.
"Now sometimes they sell out of Presti bread, so I called in beforehand and had the girl put a loaf behind the counter for me." We approach the counter and are greeted by two gleaming shelves full of fresh-baked, waiting-to-be-purchased, Presti bread.
"Oh, here you go Nana! Wow, lots of different shapes and sizes, sliced or unsliced...." She looks at me vaguely. There isn't an employee anywhere near the counter, and I cringe because I know what's coming.
"No, they have a loaf back there for me, we'll wait for the girl."
A finger-stroke in the sand. When will the tide come? I remember the truism that Anne and I used to share so many summers ago, "how random is family!? You're supposed to be so close with them, and yet you can't choose them..." I absent-mindedly take in the bright signs, pink faces also ambling behind steel cages on wheels, picking over food that I wouldn't take if it were being given away. I think about my mother. Who am I, who am I, who am I...
My reverie is punctured by the chipper voice of the bread counter person. Nana receives her safeguarded loaf, and picks over the other loaves on the shelf anyway. "Must have the best one!" is what I hear rattling around in her brain. I begin to stare at her, to absolutely stare. Death is inevitable, death is inevitable. A little wisp of a soul, carry around a corpse. She is so weak, so frail, and so absolutely unprepared for what will soon come.
"Well, OK," she mutters, resigningly putting the original loaf in her cart, "time to stock up on frozen meals."
How does one address the frozen dinner section of the grocery store...? These are meals so laden with chemicals, trans fats, sodium, that my body instantly recoils at even just the thought of eating one. Perhaps if I were starving I might be persuaded to let one of these insidious meals cross my lips. If I were starving and had already picked the ground clean of meal worms.
She approaches the freezer door, opens it, and stands -- mouth agape -- pouring over the subarctic contents. Minutes go by thusly. She just.... stands there. Looking. Poking. Reading. How can I tell my grandmother that she's wasting energy at an inconceivable rate?! I mean, it's usually the mother figure who nags at you about leaving the fridge door open, right? This is a role reversal that I want no part of. So I stand there too. Years go by and the entire store is twenty degrees colder by the time she makes up her mind.
"Well shit, where's the one with the meatballs?!"
My eyes dart straight towards the package she's looking for, and I intrepidly retreive it before she can spend another eternity looking.
"Here you go, all set?!" There is something ironic about the fact that during this entire episode, Gloria Estefan is wafting over the loud speakers commanding us to get on our feet, get up and make it happen. Nana hobbles towards the canned soup and I am thankful that these, at least, don't require refridgeration to be stored.
"She is so afraid..." My mind wants me to start sliding down that slope. Like a bolt of lightning I think of the four vows. It has been ages since I read Franny and Zooey, strange that these things can just crop up when standing in front of eight million cans of Campbell's Chunky Soup while staring at your dying grandmother. We all start with the same tools (well, essentially...) and there is really no purpose in greiving for those who never get around to taking up the task. Been thinking about the wheel of samsara lately. These things will have to be dealt with in time, your task is to begin the work on yourself, and show the light to those who demonstrate the ability to understand. Perhaps this is myopic? At any rate it's what I've come to so far.
Wishing that I could have started my dhamma practice this December...
When she dies, things will be more peaceful. I am trying to come to terms with this statement. It's true. Nana, I wish that you could have made your peace.
"Emily? Where'd you go? Oh, here..." handing me her list, she places one unsure foot in front of another, and we begin our trek up and down so many grocery store aisles.
The first stop is to the bread counter.
"Now sometimes they sell out of Presti bread, so I called in beforehand and had the girl put a loaf behind the counter for me." We approach the counter and are greeted by two gleaming shelves full of fresh-baked, waiting-to-be-purchased, Presti bread.
"Oh, here you go Nana! Wow, lots of different shapes and sizes, sliced or unsliced...." She looks at me vaguely. There isn't an employee anywhere near the counter, and I cringe because I know what's coming.
"No, they have a loaf back there for me, we'll wait for the girl."
A finger-stroke in the sand. When will the tide come? I remember the truism that Anne and I used to share so many summers ago, "how random is family!? You're supposed to be so close with them, and yet you can't choose them..." I absent-mindedly take in the bright signs, pink faces also ambling behind steel cages on wheels, picking over food that I wouldn't take if it were being given away. I think about my mother. Who am I, who am I, who am I...
My reverie is punctured by the chipper voice of the bread counter person. Nana receives her safeguarded loaf, and picks over the other loaves on the shelf anyway. "Must have the best one!" is what I hear rattling around in her brain. I begin to stare at her, to absolutely stare. Death is inevitable, death is inevitable. A little wisp of a soul, carry around a corpse. She is so weak, so frail, and so absolutely unprepared for what will soon come.
"Well, OK," she mutters, resigningly putting the original loaf in her cart, "time to stock up on frozen meals."
How does one address the frozen dinner section of the grocery store...? These are meals so laden with chemicals, trans fats, sodium, that my body instantly recoils at even just the thought of eating one. Perhaps if I were starving I might be persuaded to let one of these insidious meals cross my lips. If I were starving and had already picked the ground clean of meal worms.
She approaches the freezer door, opens it, and stands -- mouth agape -- pouring over the subarctic contents. Minutes go by thusly. She just.... stands there. Looking. Poking. Reading. How can I tell my grandmother that she's wasting energy at an inconceivable rate?! I mean, it's usually the mother figure who nags at you about leaving the fridge door open, right? This is a role reversal that I want no part of. So I stand there too. Years go by and the entire store is twenty degrees colder by the time she makes up her mind.
"Well shit, where's the one with the meatballs?!"
My eyes dart straight towards the package she's looking for, and I intrepidly retreive it before she can spend another eternity looking.
"Here you go, all set?!" There is something ironic about the fact that during this entire episode, Gloria Estefan is wafting over the loud speakers commanding us to get on our feet, get up and make it happen. Nana hobbles towards the canned soup and I am thankful that these, at least, don't require refridgeration to be stored.
"She is so afraid..." My mind wants me to start sliding down that slope. Like a bolt of lightning I think of the four vows. It has been ages since I read Franny and Zooey, strange that these things can just crop up when standing in front of eight million cans of Campbell's Chunky Soup while staring at your dying grandmother. We all start with the same tools (well, essentially...) and there is really no purpose in greiving for those who never get around to taking up the task. Been thinking about the wheel of samsara lately. These things will have to be dealt with in time, your task is to begin the work on yourself, and show the light to those who demonstrate the ability to understand. Perhaps this is myopic? At any rate it's what I've come to so far.
Wishing that I could have started my dhamma practice this December...
When she dies, things will be more peaceful. I am trying to come to terms with this statement. It's true. Nana, I wish that you could have made your peace.
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