Thursday, Feb. 20, 2003 1:43 am
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The witchling will be gone in the morning. She is going to my Vavo's (my mom's mom, my portugese grandmother sorry about the spelling, I've always said the word, but no one has ever told me how its written) house for a few days. I'm going to miss her.
She always comes back different. And I don't just mean five pounds heavier and smelling of red wine, fried food and cleaning products. She just seems, well, different. Its hard to explain. I think it is mostly due to the fact that I notice small changes that I never see when I am with her everyday.
It will be nice for her to visit Vavo. I never get to see her. My Vovo (my grandfather) disowned me when he found out I was pregnant, but Hani still gets to go to their house.
I miss my tiny grandmother. She is only 4'8" and barely speaks English. She is soft spoken and old fashioned. She can whip up a prom dress in an afternoon. She makes the best pastry and soup that I have ever eaten. She is old, arthritic, and in pain. She cries when she sees me. She is 70 years old and has never ever driven a car. She puts up with my vovo's old world crap, always there at four to make his dinner, darn his socks, and just there in general, for him to order around.
They have the typical Rhode Island portugese house: pastel painted ranch complete with tidy flower beds, rabbit and pidgeon hutch, grape arbor, and Mother Mary in a half buried bath tub in the front yard. The first floor has the required plastic runners on the floor. The living room is a shrine, kept pristine, from the silk covered furniture to the red velvet curtained windows. Little red, blue, and green glass knick-nacks catch the light from where they sit on the sill.
They have taken the "special occasion" room to the extreme. It started with the living room, but now the dining room is perpetually gleaming with fresh wax, the table is always set. They have a kitchen that's never been used. Its like a museum, I always feel I should be talking in hushed tones, careful to never leave a finger print on any polished surface.
They live downstairs. The real kitchen is down there, the whole basement smells of fried fish and bleach. The sitting room is covered with fabric remenants and bits of wadded up thread.
When I was little I loved to drape myself in cloth, pretending to be a princess.
I wonder if the old dressing gowns and formal wear still hang in the cupboard. Or if the pair of high heels still stand in its corner. I wonder if she still keeps little cups of hoodsies in her freezer, the kind with the little wooden spoon.
I wonder if Hani dresses up in rolls of fabric, and dances in those shoes.
I miss my Vavo.
Things you can only learn from movies and television...
If I see one more little winky...
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