Don’t Remember Her This Way
written by: C. Little
As the sun sets behind the house, its old, wooden door flies open, and a small figure appears before me. Soft light surrounds her frame, but as soon as my grandmother steps outside, she gets swallowed by the approaching darkness. The shadows of the night crawl over her wrinkled face, still she smiles as her tired eyes land on me. Her sturdy arms wrap around me and pull me close, squeezing me tightly, and I wonder if I’ll ever be that strong. Not strong from dragging a man twice my size out of and into a wheelchair all day long, but strong from piling the weight of the world on my already aching shoulders. My grandmother’s scent crawls up my nose as she hugs me. She smells of everything that was and not of what will be. Then my grandmother turns her head and presses her wet lips against my cheek. I want to pull away, but I don’t. Her smacking kiss is firm but soft at its core. It feels like the bursting water balloons we tossed at each other in the garden beyond the house last year, soaking our skins in the summer’s heat and leaving us shivering.
Far too soon, my grandmother lets go of me. She heads for the garden to pick some daisies, and I’m left lingering on the threshold, staring into the empty house. My vision is hazy, but I spot a hospital bed. It’s not empty, but not occupied by someone I know either. Suddenly, my dad’s voice pierces the silence. He sounds muffled, still his words will echo in my mind forever. “Don’t remember her this way.”
- Don’t Remember Her This Way - January 12, 2026
