I’m currently sick in bed, cursing myself for not making sure last night chicken was fresh. 

Ah, well. More time to work on my nonfiction project. It’s due at midnight, but I’ve made significant progress on it. The topic is, “Write about someone you witnessed go through a change,” and I had a hard time in the beginning trying to pick one person. I had several options: my mother, father, either brother, either grandparent, certain friends, and even me (but I really didn’t and still do not want to write about myself). I ended up going with my grandmother. I think I’ve been preparing myself all semester to write about her. Two of the in-class writing exercises have been about her in some way, and one of my take-home assignments was about her. So I think this a good time to revisit my grandmother. 

I think the most fun part about writing nonfiction is surprising yourself with your own recall. I spent the better part of last night trying to dredge up my memories of her, when she was healthy, when she was sick, and when she succumbed to illness. Around 3 in the morning, I was hit by an image of her regular meal at Luby’s Cafeteria. I hadn’t thought about such a thing in probably 10 years, but I remember she always picked up green jello, a cup of macaroni and cheese, a piece of cornbread (she’d pick out the jalapenos, if present), and served herself a cup of coffee with one cream and one packet of sugar. She would eat her jello first, one gelatinous cube at a time then move onto her macaroni. She didn’t touch her coffee until she finally came to her piece of cornbread. 

I remember the feeling of her soft crinkled hands. I remember the brand of lipstick she wore, the way her hair smelled like ammonia and faint vanilla after she had her perm maintained, the way she always kept clean tissues in the pockets her black ribbed cardigan sweater with big gold buttons. I remember her thin smile, and her rumbling Spanish. I remember her out-of-tune but dogged singing voice in church, and I remember the whispered, pleading prayers deep in the night when she was no longer able to walk. I remember the transition from a robust mother of 12 to a human whittled away to a half-waking body bloated with sickness. 

I’ll post the actual piece once it’s been workshopped next week.