tall woman with thick brown hair that fell into her face. She lifts her arm to brush the hair back, her hands heavy with bread dough. I ask my sister if this is how she remembers our grandmother, and she laughs at me. That was just a picture from a magazine, she says. Ma stuck it on the refrigerator. She wanted the recipe for pot roast on the other side.
What my sister and I do both remember are the green and white tiles that covered my grandmother’ s kitchen floor. We pretended the green ones were islands, and the white ones clouds. For every visit, we had to decide to live on the ground or in the clouds, and could only walk on those tiles. Sometimes my sister lived on the ground, and sometimes in the clouds. I always chose the clouds.
~
It’ s getting cooler, and I bring my mother a box with her autumn clothes. She still insists on dressing herself, so I make sure she only has clothes appropriate to the weather. As I hang up the long-sleeved blouses and cotton sweaters, my mother talks about her childhood. She remembers the neighbors she lived below forty-five years ago, and the store she walked to for milk and bread. She remembers the name of the roses Therese grew, and the dog that lived next door. I search my memory on nights when I can’ t sleep, trying to remember the names of neighbors, teachers at school, the face of my best friend in second grade.
In the mornings, my mother stands sometimes and stares at her closet, the staff tells me, but finally picks something out and puts it on.
~
I dream I am walking in the nursing home, circling the halls. I peel the silver layer from a plastic bottle and fish out the wand. It’ s a dark, bruised color, topped by a ring the size of a nickel. Oily liquid drips from my fingers, and the familiar soapy smell rises. I dip the wand into the soap and raise it, carefully centered over the small container. Step— step— blow. Step— step— blow. The man comes with his mop and sweeps the bubbles away. I follow, but he’ s moving faster than I expect, and I can only catch glimpses of him, turning corners, mop swabbing the floor, bubbles hurrying to keep up. The hallway ends at a door. As I approach I can see bubbles peeking out from under the crack between the wood and the tiles. I knock, but when there’ s no answer I turn the knob and go in.
Bubbles fill the room. I wade through them, looking inside each one. This one holds a creased photograph of three young children, two boys and a girl.
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