Cages of Our Own Creation

“I could have been something,” she tells me.

I look closely at the woman sitting across from me. Her face is weathered and cracked, like the craggy mountains that pierce the horizon with their teeth. She could have been beautiful, maybe, a long time ago. But I wouldn’t know. All I see is her crooked, yellowed teeth, her thin skin, sagging and bruised like overripe fruit, her flat eyes, staring at me beseechingly. I know I should agree, on principle. It is bad manner to disagree with someone, especially when they are old and especially when they are your grandmother.

But I can’t choke out the words. I dip my small spoon and spin it around the circumference of my tea cup, slowly scraping the sides, listening to the singing of metal on porcelain. Around once. Around twice.

My grandmother folds her hands in front of her. Her fingers tiredly twist around each other with the shakiness of age. Her mouth quivers too, but I don’t think I can blame age for that. She looks at me and I know I should agree. I steal myself to say the words, to reassure my grandmother that she is still beautiful.

She speaks before I can. “I could have been something,” she tells me.

And we begin again.

 

Done