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 .
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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 .
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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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