Slow Down

I took her to Walmart so she could mosey around the aisles. She uses the shopping carts for balance, taking her time with each step. At 98, she doesn’t get out much. Her feet hurt, and it’s nearly impossible to find shoes that don’t make the pain worse. Years of dancing have left her with gnarled toes, a fact she half-laments, half-brags about. Sometimes she jokes that she spent more time dancing than studying her Catholic lessons, and perhaps that’s why god is punishing her by not letting her die.

My grandfather has been gone for years now. He died in a car accident on a foggy day, trying to help my grandmother out of the car after a minor fender bender. A car didn’t see them stopped on the side of the road. They say it was instant, but her version of the story always leaves room for interpretation, she’s always had a knack for storytelling.

While we were at Walmart, I helped her pick out an eyebrow pencil, something she’d been reminding me about since I arrived in town. When it was time to check out, she got flustered digging in her tight wrist pouch for money. I asked if she wanted help. She frowned at me, which I know meant to fuck off, so I did.

Outside, she insisted I return the cart while she got in the car herself. “Go ahead and return the cart. I can manage.” She was still flustered.

“Grandma, that’s okay. I can return it after I help you.”

Another fuck-off frown. I walked beside her as she shuffled, holding on to the car for balance. She moves slow, and honestly, I don’t mind. I like walking slow, something my husband teases me for. She’s slow in a weird way, like when you’re watching her, but she has this gift of disappearing as fast as lightning if you turn away just for a second. I lost her in a casino one time, and it took me an hour to find her. I had even taken a mental note of her outfit so as not to lose her in the sea of gambling seniors, but once I did lose her, everyone seemed to have on the same outfit. I was stressed and out of breathe when I found her sitting happily at a slot machine.

Thinking back, though, she’s always had a slow, deliberate way about her, about that generation. When we were kids, she’d take us to Golden Corral. We’d inhale our food and then complain endlessly about how long she took to finish hers. After she had mouth cancer and lost half her tongue, eating got even slower. She claims god took her tongue as punishment for the wicked things she’s said, a classic Catholic explanation with a vengeful twist.

She got herself into the car, and I pulled the buckle over so she could snap it in. I help where I’m allowed, she’s always been stubborn. She shook her head. “This is why I don’t like going anywhere anymore. I’m so slow.”

I put my hand on her tired, trembling leg. “Grandma, it’s okay to be slow. The whole planet needs to slow down. You’re just reminding everyone.”

She took in those words, nodded, and half smiled at me.