by Kiva Navarro

Five generations gathered around Grandma Annie’s hospital bed to say goodbye.  I was not one of them. I wanted to preserve my last memory of her, which was from the night before. So, I stayed in the waiting room, closed my eyes, and remained lost in thought.

It was a late night. My mom, Aunt Mary and I took Grandma to Wal-Mart. She wanted new house shoes, bananas, and coffee. She sat in a wheelchair; her feet were tired. Her oxygen tank was strapped to the back of the chair. She called the tank her boyfriend—probably because it went with her everywhere, but annoyed the hell out of her.

In the shoe section, I sat on the floor in front of her putting on different colors and styles of slippers, until Grandma found the perfect pair. Her muscular, but aged feet revealed remnants of her hard work in the cotton fields as a young girl and evidence of the yard work she did that morning.

“The blue ones, mija.” She wiggled her toes at me.

“They feel gooood.” She smiled.

I laughed, “Okay Grandma.”

We moved to the food section in search of my aunt and mom and headed for the bananas. Suddenly, I had a fantastic idea.

I looked at the empty aisles all around us. Not a soul in sight.

“Grandma, hold on tight.”

“Eh?”

“Hold on, we’re going to go real fast!”

“Okaaaay.”

I ran as fast as I could while pushing grandma in the wheel chair. We whizzed past butter, yogurt, lunch meats, and frozen foods.

She roared in laughter.

“Kiva (laughing) you going (more laughing) to kill me!”

I looked to my left at the approach of the last aisle and caught the drop-dead shocked look on the faces of my aunt and mom. My mom froze with her hand on the coffee jar and tilted her head. My aunt dropped her jaw and gasped.

We flew past them and heard outbursts of laughter as we came to a halt in the produce section.

Grandma sifted through bananas and delicately placed them in my arms. Her hands were soft and her nails were trimmed. I could see the strength in her veins as she flexed her fingers and then rubbed them together. I had no doubt those hands sent a fair number of people to the woodshed, where Grandma threatened to send all members of the family who misbehaved—regardless of age.

We paused at the exit doors when I had another fantastic idea.

“Grandma, you ready?”

“Yeaaah.”

I shifted the wheelchair backwards and pushed with all my might down, down, down, the small incline.

I let go of the handlebars. The wheels speeded into the parking lot.  My mom and Aunt watched in hilarity from behind us.

“Raise your hands Grandma!”

She raised them.

I could not contain my laughter, but neither could she. I ran to catch grandma just as the incline came to a flat pane.

She smiled with every wrinkle in her sweet, tanned face and her blue-grey eyes twinkled with joy.

“Allllllright! That was fuuun!”

I opened my eyes in the waiting room. I grinned. I cried. But I held on to the memory of Grandma Annie’s smile and laugh—oh yes, that laugh.