As I walked into my grandmother's house...

The combination of childhood lost, the loneliness of my grandmother and the hostility of the little house drew a few internal tears to my eyes. I suddenly hated myself for not knowing how to deal with this, for this awkwardness gripping me.1

I had to busy myself with menial tasks – cleaning the windows and washing up. I realised with no small amount of horror that by doing these things, I didn’t have to think about Her. 2

In the car on the long journey home I thought, though. I thought that night too, restless and dreamy. What does she do all day? The house…it’s so dark. Whenever we go there, the TV assaults us at ear-splitting volume, like a screaming toddler demanding attention. 3

I wonder if I will become like her. It hurts the most to remember how she used to be: capable and young. My mother takes me aside, admits with fear in her eyes that she does not know how to ‘deal with this’. Beyond making loud, one-sided conversation, we do not know what to do or say. 4

I have grown taller since we last visited. My grandmother is now slightly more than half my height. I used to look up to her. The house is smaller too, I think. I didn’t realise how much I must have grown. It is a thousand clichés yet it still kills me. This woman who used to look after me can no longer take care of herself – she is the child. 5

Alone in the kitchen, my gaze rests on the numerous packages of ready meals. She used to make the best pasta for me, and perfect apple pie. She would lay out my tiny blue nightdress on the heater, and as I changed, she laid the breakfast table ready for the next morning. Brightly patterned bowls, a fresh packet of cornflakes. She would always be up long before me somehow, even though I tried to set alarms to wake me up just a few minutes before her.6

For the first time, I think properly about the humiliation of old age. My grandmother is helpless like an infant. The house, which she once looked after so well now has black patches on the carpet, and it smells of human odours throughout. The windows may as well be made from frosted glass, so thick is the layer of dust coating them.7

We go into the garden, escorting my grandmother with us at her slow, unchanging pace. She used to prepare meals for me and let me eat them outside, and afterwards she would play games and cards with me. Weeds have staged a takeover, brambles prevent us walking down the path, and they remind me of police tape at a crime scene. At the end of the garden are a few apple trees bearing some fruit. 8

I cannot get our entrance out of my head. We walked down the corridor, and there she stood at the end, diminutive, clutching a plate. My mother is in front of me, and she gets there first. I don’t know what my grandmother says to her, but she sees me in the dim afternoon light and asks the question ‘who’s this?’9

I go to that house again that night, in my dreams. It seems bigger this time, and cleaner. Light streams through the gleaming windows, and my grandmother does not sit in her chair anymore. I am on the sofa, wondering when she will return. I hear the door open, and know that I do not need to leap up to aid her. She moves elegantly towards me, holding a cup of tea to her chest so as not to spill it. 10

She places the tea carefully before me, and she is tall again. She has lipstick on, and her skin is soft and bright. The tea is in the same cup that she always gives me, a delicate blue china object. It always reminds me of an eggshell, being the colour it is, and so fragile too.11

I know without asking that she will take me for a walk today, round the city, armed with bread to placate the ducks. The sky outside is bluer than is natural. I cannot smell petrol fumes on the road any more. 12

The TV in the house is not an annoyance any more – it is a treat. I was never allowed to watch TV in the daytime at home, so here, it is a luxury. I know that I can enjoy the freedom of this afternoon. 13

There is no definite end to the dream, it just finishes abruptly. I have been woken by a raging summer thunderstorm at five in the morning. I cry silent tears pressed up against my pillow, and fall asleep with a huge headache. I miss my poor, living grandmother more than I miss my grandfather, who died last year. 14

I will have that dream so many times that I will begin to doubt whether it ever really happened in real life, or whether it was all just a dream from the start. 15