For You, Grandma

By Hailey Huber

 

I saw my grandma today.

Nestled in the stark white walls of the bakery that we polish every day to stand out in the brown hustle and haze of the city. It is always so warm inside my cheeks turn rosy. They bruise under the fake smile I push every time someone tells me how good it smells as they stare at the case of tarts and cakes that I have gone nose-blind to.

Well, I didn't see her.

Most people come in and out, staring at the white menu board with aesthetic black push lettering we have to change every time Ann comes up with something new. Most people hate changing it, popping out each letter and searching through the constantly unorganized bin of discards. But I don't mind it. It’s repetitive and simple. The only downside is the small marks the plastic leaves in your fingers after digging and pressing.

But I saw her.

This woman walked in differently. Not looking at the menu, not coming straight to the register tucked in the corner, or even staring down at the case illuminating to a blinding degree. She stepped in as if she was simply entering her home.

The minute I saw her, I froze, my fingers dropping the black letters back into the bin. I knew it was going to take 5 minutes to try and dig them out again, especially since the ends of the letters love to get tangled on each other, but I had to look at her.

I almost backed away at the sight. Her presence was like a wave, pulsing and pulling everyone around her in. I wondered if my time here had all been a lie and she was the true mastermind behind the operation. I might have given her the keys to the place if she asked.

But she would never ask.

She smiled and nodded at me before her eyes finally dropped to the small case of treats. Her fingers held onto the strap of her purse secured over her shoulder. I didn't have to see her nails to know they were painted a bright blue.

It is the perfect color for the season, after all. Not quite spring, but winter has already let its grip go. My grandma would say the color was transitional, soft enough to welcome Easter but cool enough to match any snow that missed its deadline.

I don't know how long I stayed there, watching the earrings dangling under her soft gray hair. She was a ghost that came to greet me. I wondered if I was dead, because she was so sure of herself.

She made a comment on one of the cakes, talking about how daisies are her favorite. They aren't. Or at least they weren't her favorite. But I knew she was only trying to compliment the decoration in any way she knew. I paused as she looked over the rose and pistachio croissant.

It was always my grandma's favorite.

Once she took me to a little bake shop, and I got a chocolate cupcake while she got the croissant. But I took one bite of hers, and in my selfish childhood phase I took it all, still too young to truly ask, still too young to know the sacrifice she was making.

She traded with me, bouncing me on her leg as I devoured the pastry she would have savored. She picked at the chocolate cupcake until the thing fell apart into crumbs too small for me to see.

Each time I think of the memory, I wish I could go back to slap my hand away and hand the croissant back to my grandma. Each time I make the treat, I have to stop myself from setting one aside for her, if only so I could imagine her smile as I brought it home from work. And hear her telling me I didn't have to but eating it nonetheless.

The woman leaned forward and tapped her finger on the strap of her bag as she looked over each dessert, considering them with more care than they deserved. She stopped on each one, reading the little hand-printed cards detailing the ingredients as if studying them to go back home and recreate.

She talked to me like I was hers, like she knew my name and remembered me playing in her garden as a kid. Maybe she saw someone in me too, but I have a feeling she was like that with everyone. Everywhere she went became a quiet dinner table, where she sat sipping her coffee, her fingers dancing on the worn wood, and asking you how you have been.

Her table is open for everyone. It is always empty but always filled. She pulls each person into her circle, even if they sit on the sideline and just watch. But no matter the setting, she will lean into you and whisper something that's just for the two of you to laugh over.

Today, she asked me where I got my hair done. I brought my fingers up to brush the end as if doing so would transfer the knowledge to her.

I told her about the salon down the road, but even as she nodded at my answer, I couldn't stop. I went on to tell her about my favorite stylist, how she has open availability on Friday if she ever wanted to stop by, even though I knew the woman had her own she was loyal to. The words spilled from me as if she turned speaking into breathing.

I went on to tell her how I've been going there since I was a child. How I went to school down the road and was grateful I found a college in the same town as her. I know the details were irrelevant, but it got her to smile as if each word I spoke gave her life.

I couldn't stop gawking as she looked back down at the pastries. I wanted to ask her which one was her favorite, which ones she might have baked or tried before, or if this was her first time in the store. I wanted to ask, but I felt I couldn't reach out.

I couldn't touch her, or else the whole shop would fall away and reveal itself to be a trick, and the woman standing in front of me nothing more than a figment of light passing through the window and catching onto the sugar coating of the cupcakes.

“That one.” My grandma smiled, pointing to a small cheesecake, adorned with gold foil and spikes of raspberries. I almost tripped over myself when packing it, studying the two we had available, trying to determine which one was better.

I wanted to take my time, to grab the box and open it in between conversation, turning seconds into minutes with my procrastination. I wanted to say more, to keep her in front of me and listening to my rambling until her face morphed into a picture. She would have listened; she would have stood there and smiled, knowing my tricks better than I knew them myself.

But I knew I couldn't trap the sun and hoard her light without killing the flowers. I knew her smile and posture were nothing more than death coming to greet me.
As I finished, I slipped an extra treat in. The rose and pistachio croissant. It is one of the least popular flavors. But I knew even if she hated it, somehow deep down she would know it was a small offering through her to the soul that lives inside.

 

Hailey Huber(she/her)from US is a fiction and fantasy writer. She has won awards for her poetry, scripts, and speeches at the Community College of Philadelphia where she graduated with a degree in Mass Media.