February Wordsmith's
BURNING APPLIANCES
Our gestures don’t amount to much. A smile here, a nod there. The smile is but the slightest upturn of the lips, or really just a tightening of the facial muscles around the jaws. The nods are the barest of nods except when the nod turns into the resigned head-bow, the chin nearly resting on the top of the sternum.
My grandmother is the one burning appliances. Her smiles are the meagerest, her nods the slightest, but with every slight movement, I can see the light dimming just a bit. It’s a frightening thing.
Burning appliances. It’s a phrase dating back to the early days of NASA. It was used during the development of fighter-bombers, where the trade-off between payload weight and fuel use was the paramount concern. Turn off a few more switches, and save a little more fuel for flight. Burn fewer appliances, and stay aloft long enough to reach the target.
I find myself wishing fewer of us had come. Every grandchild, all the cousins, my three uncles, Mom, Dad, they all came to see. The word went ‘round: come see her. Might be the last time. Everyone said it but me. I wasn’t going to come see her for The Last Time. I’m not willing to concede the game just yet. As far as I am concerned, the ball is still in play.
She was a painter. It is fair to say “was.” She hasn’t lifted a brush in almost thirty years. I loved her paintings, the water-colors and the oils especially, sketches of Georgia swamps and Florida beaches, places she loved. She quit after Grandad described a woodcut of a heron perched on a cypress knee as looking like a child’s drawing of a Christmas gnome. She wasn’t insulted. She just figured she had done enough. Lord knows, she left plenty behind her.
Lord knows.
Her hair is soft and silver; she gave up hairdressing years ago. She never fooled herself or anyone else by trying to go back to her original carrot-orange hue, but instead dyed her hair a dignified white. Now it’s silver-white, the color of the ingot each of the grandkids got for their eighth birthday. Why eighth? I never got around to asking.
As the last of the grandkids filter out, I lean down over the bed again. She smiles at me, and says “They’re wondering who’s going to get the beach house.” I smile and shake my head. “Don’t think I’m not.” The tiny joke resonates the tiniest laugh through her body, a dangerous ripple of current across her frail frame.
A changing of the guard finds me fled to the chapel. Not that I am a praying man; I just had to get away. But as long as I’m here, I pray a pilot’s prayer for her, not conceding it will be the last, not denying it might be.
Come on, Old Man. Switch off some appliances. She’s got a few more miles left in her.
Our gestures don’t amount to much. A smile here, a nod there. The smile is but the slightest upturn of the lips, or really just a tightening of the facial muscles around the jaws. The nods are the barest of nods except when the nod turns into the resigned head-bow, the chin nearly resting on the top of the sternum.
My grandmother is the one burning appliances. Her smiles are the meagerest, her nods the slightest, but with every slight movement, I can see the light dimming just a bit. It’s a frightening thing.
Burning appliances. It’s a phrase dating back to the early days of NASA. It was used during the development of fighter-bombers, where the trade-off between payload weight and fuel use was the paramount concern. Turn off a few more switches, and save a little more fuel for flight. Burn fewer appliances, and stay aloft long enough to reach the target.
I find myself wishing fewer of us had come. Every grandchild, all the cousins, my three uncles, Mom, Dad, they all came to see. The word went ‘round: come see her. Might be the last time. Everyone said it but me. I wasn’t going to come see her for The Last Time. I’m not willing to concede the game just yet. As far as I am concerned, the ball is still in play.
She was a painter. It is fair to say “was.” She hasn’t lifted a brush in almost thirty years. I loved her paintings, the water-colors and the oils especially, sketches of Georgia swamps and Florida beaches, places she loved. She quit after Grandad described a woodcut of a heron perched on a cypress knee as looking like a child’s drawing of a Christmas gnome. She wasn’t insulted. She just figured she had done enough. Lord knows, she left plenty behind her.
Lord knows.
Her hair is soft and silver; she gave up hairdressing years ago. She never fooled herself or anyone else by trying to go back to her original carrot-orange hue, but instead dyed her hair a dignified white. Now it’s silver-white, the color of the ingot each of the grandkids got for their eighth birthday. Why eighth? I never got around to asking.
As the last of the grandkids filter out, I lean down over the bed again. She smiles at me, and says “They’re wondering who’s going to get the beach house.” I smile and shake my head. “Don’t think I’m not.” The tiny joke resonates the tiniest laugh through her body, a dangerous ripple of current across her frail frame.
A changing of the guard finds me fled to the chapel. Not that I am a praying man; I just had to get away. But as long as I’m here, I pray a pilot’s prayer for her, not conceding it will be the last, not denying it might be.
Come on, Old Man. Switch off some appliances. She’s got a few more miles left in her.
Labels: Wordsmiths
posted by Bobo the Wandering Pallbearer at 9:31 AM
4 Comments:
Very nice story.
Bobo - wow. I like that at first the reader doesn't know what 'burning apliances' means, and as the explanation is given the resonance of the term comes to bear. The narrator's love for his grandmother is evident, and the closing lines solidify that emotion so succinctly.
I loved this. Can you tell?
My ONLY thought would be that at first I thought they were all in church, and I had a bit of a mental stumble going from there to a hospital room. That is likely due to me KNOWING wheat the inspiration picture is....but it could also be taken for a business meeting too.
That was beautiful. I loved the moment they shared over the beach house. That told the reader so much about her.
I was able to completely picture her laughing.
Nicely done.
Great story, I was drawn in right away. It took a second read to connect the beginning to the middle, but it was worth it. Evocative, insightful, stoic, and left me wondering what happened next.
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