I mean, really what is their purpose, and why have they invaded my grandmother’s garden like an apocalypse?
When I arrived yesterday, finding my nana very confused and slightly disheveled on her front porch, guilt consumed me like these pesky plants taking over Nana’s flower bed.
Has it really been five years since I’ve paid this woman a visit?
As I flip the calendar in my head backward, I find that it has been that long. In my pursuit for career above all else, I’d been lacking in diligence toward the person most important to me—Nana. Next to my older sister, Grace, of course.
However, I haven’t yet become who I wanted to be in my thirty-four years. I haven’t reached that pinnacle point in my career. I also haven’t found love.
I’m just not marriage material, as a boyfriend of only three months once told me.
He married the next girl he dated.
I told myself it didn’t matter.
As I yank yet another questionable plant with variegated leaves and a prickly stem, I catch a glimpse of Nana out of the corner of my eye. She loves this town, a sleepy tourist place on Lake Michigan. I didn’t grow up here, and for a few years, Nana lived with Grace and me after our mother died. Nana and Grandpa decided to move downstate so as not to uproot us, but the second I graduated from high school, they’d sold our home. Once I left the state of Michigan for college, my eyes never once looked in the rearview mirror. I only faced forward for a career in writing. Journalism, to be specific. I would be the next great columnist, similar to but not quite the same as Nana.
She’d been an award-winning writer on advice, specifically on matters of manners and behaviors in etiquette.
When I’d arrived yesterday, her appearance had been anything but presentable as she stood on her front porch in a housecoat and curlers. She would never still be dressed in her robe and nightgown so late in the day, nor be standing on the front porch of all places in said clothing—heavens no.
Then there was the way she stared at me, or rather through me, like she didn’t know who I was, and for a moment, she didn’t. It was evident my nana did not recall who I was until I introduced myself.
Nana, it’s me. Emily.
How could she not recognize me? I realize it has been a few years since I visited, but we spoke often on the phone. I hadn’t detected a hint to her . . . confusion. My grandmother was practically a second mother, replacing my own who had died when I was only twelve. How could Nana have forgotten me? And furthermore, why had I neglected her? I should have been here sooner.
Fortunately, Nana snapped out of her confusion over who I was rather quickly, but then she started mentioning my grandfather, John.
“John forgot to put out the porch furniture.”
“John hadn’t cut the grass or tended the garden.”
“John wanted his circa-1920s radio fixed.”
The only problem with this list was my grandfather was dead. He died a decade or so ago, and Nana seemed to have forgotten this fact.
How could she forget the love of her life was no longer alive?
She’d locked herself out of the house but told the neighbor John did it.
Oh my.
That action prompted this visit.
Again, I gaze at my grandmother sitting in her backyard, her eyelids drooping in the heat of the day. July is one of the better months to visit here. Tourism is vital for this town’s economy. I was hoping for time at the beach myself, but I can see I have my work cut out for me. Being here entails more than a weekend visit. The unkept yard. The slanted garage. The untidiness of the house. My grandmother has never lacked in her ability to clean, organize, and maintain. She’s always been a pillar of efficiency, only what I’ve found upon this visit proves her skills have been declining. How long has she been like this? And why hadn’t I come sooner?
I tug at another plant.
“That’s a daisy, honey. It stays.” Nana’s scratchy voice startles me. I thought she’d dozed off for a nap.
“Nana, I think you need a break. How about some lemonade?” I’m sweating worse than Millennium Park’s fountain as I stand from my spot in the grass. The flower bed runs the length of the garage, curls around the property’s back edge that