Full of Life--Hailey

The smell of banana pancakes in the morning could wake me up better than any alarm. I
used to fly down the stairs and race to see my grandmother cook the magical recipe. As the delicious smell filled my nose, I would observe the small family of houseplants on the windowsill she had accumulated over the years and admire the wind chime hanging outside. It was ornate piece, complete with monarch butterflies and jade stones cascading around the silver rods in the center. At the kitchen table, we’d sit across from each other; me, scarfing down pancakes as fast as I could with my feet happily swinging below me, and her, warning me to slow down with a content smile on her face as she brought coffee to her lips. If I was lucky enough, my grandmother would pass her cup of coffee to me and I’d have a sip without my parents knowing. Honestly, I found the drink disgusting, but it let me pretend that I was older and wiser like she was. Soon after, I’d offer to help her wash the dishes, which was quite difficult considering that I had to stand on the very tips of my toes to see over the sink. Nonetheless, she would make me feel important by handing me a towel and an already dry dish. 

My grandmother expressed her creativity through quilting and it always seemed a new one had appeared every time I saw her. She would create abstract patterns that were loud and colorful or even animals that looked as if they were moving through the scenes the threads created on the quilt. I used to love observing how her hands danced as she created these pieces of art, and I was always excited as to what new masterpiece would be awaiting on the couch whenever I visited her. My father and I would stop by the local fabric store before we dropped by, because he knew his mother would appreciate a new set of colorful fabrics much more than a bouquet of flowers. I remember the silent joy he had on his face when he spotted a pattern he picked out for her in her newest creation. 

In her early years, my grandmother was a teacher. I was still able to witness this firsthand as she not only taught me how to read, but slowly incorporated our culture and traditions with the curriculum I was given at school. Due to her patience and perseverance, I was able to tell my mother I loved her in Tagalog with my grandmother beaming behind me, but quietly reassuring her that I would get the pronunciation right after I had bounced away feeling accomplished. In the autumn, the wind chime would grow cacophonous until the strings of jade would tangle with the families of monarchs, creating an unpleasant banging. 

One morning, like any other, I flew down the stairs to meet my grandmother. Only this time, she wasn’t there. I had woken up before her. Upon the countertop, I saw the wind chime untangled and neat, but unable to make the peaceful ringing it had made before. Morning after morning, I began to memorize the new routine I had to follow. A bowl of cereal along with a glass of mango juice, waiting on the cashmere sofa wrapped in the quilt that seemed to have been there for an unusually long amount of time, and holding my grandmother’s hand as she slowly made her way down the staircase to join me on the couch, where she would rest again. I was too young at the time to realize she was ill, I didn’t witness her coughing or sniffling. I didn’t see the way she was slowly thinning out or thought too hard about the headscarf covering her balding head. She still managed to carry her happy personality and smile her contagious smile at me with her tired eyes. When she had to be in a wheelchair, too weak to walk, she would joke about how proud she was to see me so tall above her. 

My grandmother visits me in my dreams sometimes. I fly down the stairs and see her making those banana pancakes and this time, she pours another coffee cup for me. She tells me to slow down when I eat, and exclaims in joy when she realizes how my feet can touch the ground below me. I clean the dishes for her, and I observe the same family of houseplants she cares for so well and the monarchs flying happily around the strings of jade as they catch the light when they dance. I see her make her way to the couch, ready to start a new masterpiece with a box, that may have been larger than her, filled to the brim with colorful fabrics. It’s like every other happy morning.