Kindness is Work

That summer, I burst out of the school doors, escaping the gravity of concrete and flickering fluorescent lights like a rocket. One more spark in an explosion of students off to claim the joys due them for being contained so long. Racing home, my head was filled with planned days of splashing in the creeks with my friends, lying out on the banks listening for the frogs we’d soon hunt for sport. I ran into my house so fast that I completely missed our station wagon in the driveway, packed to the windows. Inside, it felt like summer had already slipped away. A winter’s breeze made me shudder.

Dad sat in his chair, a thick book in his hands. I had never seen him with a book before. The TV remote or a beer, sure, but not a book. The black cover took light from the window and fed it to the large gold letters on the front, mostly hidden by his white fingers. He fingered the cracks in the spine and tapped out some hymn along the colorful markers planted among the gold-edged pages. Mom came down with my travel bag of car games and books. She looked at my father and muttered something about that woman being the only one who could guilt him into doing anything with the Good Book. Turning, jaw set, she looked at me with the same stare General Patton used in my book on WWII. I knew right then. We were going to Grandma’s house.

As far as monsters go, Grandma was no Dracula or Wolf-Man, though my mom could make a compelling argument for both. When I was obsessed with snakes, I might have compared her to a viper, armed with slower-acting venom diluted by southern charm and dental cream. Oh, she was wonderful to me. Passing out never-ending packets of candy behind my mother’s back. Pitchers of iced lemonade before bed. Her fangs were reserved for other prey that dared enter her den.

Grandma lived north of us, deep in a city she had never wanted to move to and was too stubborn to leave even as her neighbors flew for whiter climes. The highway stretched out ahead, inviting me to pelt my parents with inquiries. Are we there yet? How long until we’re there? Why are we going there? Mom snapped her head back, looking at me over her arm draped across the front seat. We will get there when we get there. And we are going there because we love your father and would do anything for him. Even march into the gates of hell. She turned and sighed, shoulders slumping. Without looking back, she said, barely a whisper, we offer love in hopes that it teaches others to love. We offer love in hopes that it teaches others to love. My dad said nothing the entire drive.

In the early twilight, we stepped out of the car and stretched. Grandma’s neighbors came out, and it felt different to be in that space. At home, it was my father who could disappear into the crowd with his farmer’s tan and combed-back hair. My mother seemed to always stand out with her tight black curls and chocolate skin. Here, she was just another beauty on the street, and my father was a sore thumb. I felt out of place in both, just happy as long as I was with them, in our own little world. Some of the older women doled out hugs filled with sympathy and early condolences. They seemed well practiced in not speaking ill of the dead and were just getting a head start. I remember him smiling as he wiped away his tears, his pride in how they gushed over me. Then he transformed into marble the moment he crossed the threshold of the house he grew up in. Outside of that place, this neighborhood was home.

Grandma’s house smelled like the morgue we’d visited in the eighth grade. They wouldn’t let us see any of the bodies. Just mounded sheets laid out over cautionary tales. I imagine some of them may have looked similar to my grandmother, but better. A wheezing collection of purple bruises and plastic tubes with a skull still fighting to be a face. Who was this creature, tied down by gravity and time?

My mother stepped in and got the rundown from the hospice nurse on how she could help and care for Grandma through the night or when they didn’t have enough coverage. There were so many people in the area that they needed to help. For days, I walked the house like a ghost while my father skimmed through his mother’s old bible and my mother cared for the woman who bit her so many times she should be covered in scars. And maybe she was, but I just wasn’t old enough to see. I made my way outside, but the other young boys in the neighborhood were wary of someone new who smelled so much of death. They had dealt with that enough in their time. Later, they accepted me into the home, the neighborhood, just as their parents had done for my father. A tale I’ll hold in my heart for another time.

That summer, the one I spent in a mausoleaum instead of a forest, taught me many things, but its greatest gift was a change in how I saw my mother. I’d always known she was filled with love. How could she not be with a son that talked back, always did enough to just pass classes, and ran out into the world with his friends without so much as a goodbye? For all her stern recriminations, that I had most definitely earned, there was always love. It seemed like that love was enough to transform even my grandmother.

Sometimes, when she was lucid, or enough of her pain meds had kicked in, I saw Grandma smile at my mother. A genuine smile, not one carved into a stone mask and slipped on. The poison seemed to have been drained from her words as well. My mother returned that smile with one she’d learned from the Virgin Mary, beneficent and kind. One day, Mom needed a break and slipped out for a walk. Dad and I stepped up a bit, inordinately proud of doing the general clean-up, as most men are. Then, Grandma cried out and no matter how we tried to help, she would swat us away. Growl out that she wanted her nurse, only her nurse. Don’t you dare touch me! Keep your filthy hands away! A dying snake spewing her last dregs of venom. My mother came home and swiftly stepped into the room. As quick as a whispered coo of calm reached Grandma’s ear, Hyde became Jekyll. My dear nurse, oh my nurse, only you know how to care for me.

I understood. She had no idea. No idea who my mother was. Even near death, Grandma was Grandma. She had nothing but disdain for the woman her son married. But a woman of color there to care for her? That was a woman she could love. My mother nodded to me, and continued her work. Grandma fell back asleep, safe in her beloved nurse’s hands.

Later, I wandered a garden of memories, seeing the weeds Grandma had planted in-between the flowers for the first time. My mother sat next to me, answering my unasked questions. Some of its duty, just doing what I was taught. Respecting your elders. Most of its love for your father. For you. The church tells us to take care of the poor and I like to think that means the poor of spirit, too. I know, I’m being judgmental. Nobody’s perfect. Then again, I’m not sure anyone would disagree with me. Still, I’ll work on it. Kindness can be work, but its valuable work. I hope you remember that.

Grandma passed near the end of summer break. It took almost right up to school starting to get everything taken care of with the house and her stuff. So much nearly unused furniture overlooked by a legion of tiny figurines. Mom asked me to remember her words, her actions, and I did. She was right, being kind was hard work, especially in high school. Even in college. More so as an adult. I failed plenty, still do, but I always try. That summer wasn’t what I had expected, but its lessons shaped the rest of my life.

Mom called me the other day. She had no need to send a loaded bible. They had found my Dad playing in the creek, looking for frogs. He was fine, a little bruised from falling in, but he could use some company. He could use a little kindness.