by MaryKate Moran
No one living in their first apartment has bought much of their own furniture. Not anyone I know. Almost everything in my apartment belongs to my grandparents. Or, as I usually say because she's the one who lived longer, my grandma. I was proud to afford a cloth lantern, bookshelf and rug. The other rug is from her, as is the rattan chair, the coffee table, the desk, the floor lamp, the card table that acts as a breakfast bar and vanity,the leather loveseat, plus the silverware and cookware and toaster.
I used to sink into that loveseat when it was back in Grosse Pointe Farms, knowing I was supposed to visit with my grandma, but unsure of what to say. The leather would warm up quickly and the armrest was the right height to lie back.
When we were younger my brother and I couldn't wait to turn on her cable TV, something we usually had the decency to wait for until our first full day of each visit. As her hearing went, the television, set on any channel – there were no favorites – was pumped up louder. In the last years of her life, her reliable armchair, the one piece of furniture that wasn't doled out amongst the family but
instead sat in the room at the nursing home when she died, scooted closer to the screen. And she fell asleep a lot. And then I'd try to think of something to say for when she woke up.
No comments:
Post a Comment