Ruminations in Syracuse

They decided to move my grandfather into Silver Springs Syracuse Living Center. An “independent living” section of an old-person’s home. This always seemed to be a deeply condescending title, as the residents were treated like children. Play time disguised as conversation hour, the flow of caretakers knocking on the hour to make sure no one had died or was lonely—neither problem a knock at the door could really solve. 

When we arrived at the main building, my throat felt like a plum seed was caught in the middle and the hair on my nape had turned cool and wet. The air in the lobby was week-old bread mixed with hundreds of old-lady perfumes that gripped the walls of every corner. The entry building was covered with a grey-ish brown carpet and floral wallpaper that hurt to look at. I was given a nametag printed with ink about to run out, so my name faded to white at the end. 

A black ceramic hound sat at the threshold of his door, though it had once lived in dust on the top of a book shelf in his old house. Now, here, it spent its days staring off into the mildew carpet—witnessing the shuffling of slippered feet and varicose veined legs inching down hallways. I wonder if it missed the view of that brown stone. If the statue was able to grasp onto a sense of memory that had decomposed for my grandfather. When the door cracked open, he appeared skeletal and crumpled, with a tall fluff of white hair that stuck straight up out of his head. In his youth he had been in advertising and utterly anal about aesthetics. He would never leave the house without a freshly pressed shirt in the perfect shade of sage and a clean shave. He was an extremely anxious man that hid it badly. It was OCD, probably, looking back; touching every door knob and calling the airlines eight times in a row to

make sure the plane was absolutely equipped to fly. The man before us at the door was not the grandfather of my memories. On his face was a serene smile. Peaceful, finally. A toothpaste stain or maybe it was tuna salad sat center on his wrinkled navy sweater. He looked past me, as if I were a stranger. 

We squeezed through the doorway, my mother taking the lead, tipping over with groceries to fill his empty buzzing fridge. He seemed smaller, shrunken. Like his neck had melted into his shoulders. Every time he raised his gaze to look at me there was a twinge of confusion as he tried to place me in his family tree, assign me to one of his daughters or just accept me as an extra in the room. We sat down on the leather couch he had once designed, though he didn’t know that now. They had tried to replicate his house in Brooklyn in this living room. They had placed art books and chic modern wire tables next to red leather couches. Swaddled him in warm lamps and ancient handmade blankets to convince him that he never left the city. The only thing that stuck out were the large clocks that covered the living room. One on the table. One on the counter. One on the door of the fridge. They all screamed “2:00 PM NOVEMBER 25TH WEDNESDAY” and, in very small letters at the bottom, “YOU ARE OKAY :)”. 

In a moment of silence my grandpa turned to me and said, “where are my manners, so nice to meet you by the way, I’m Marty.” in a tone flattened, his yellowed teeth showing off in a lopsided smile. The plum seed expanded to a mango pit in my throat. I lifted my head to meet his fog, hoping he’d change his mind—that he’d place me in the tree, in the branches among the familiar fruit and leaves. The smell of his now long-gone wife hung heavy in the room. He wore her perfume every day. It kept him company when sharp knocks at the door weren’t enough. She seemed to be sitting with us—sitting on my shoulders in the emptiness that followed his greeting. I rose from the couch that tried to take a bite of me as I stood, grumbling something about needing to go to the bathroom. As I left the frigid stillness of the room, the scent of my grandmother trailed after me. 

Grasping at the cold tile of the sink, the mango seed forced boiling tears. I took the perfume that was perched on the corner and uncapped the coiled metal top—filling my lungs with her memory: with her hand in mine, her soft curls and burdened expression. I stayed there a long while. The daylight shining through the window turned to dusk. There was a short muffled knock at the door. I wasn’t dying, but I was beginning to feel lonely, places like that make you feel those things. It was my mother on the other side saying it was time to go. I left in the bathroom the wish that it was my grandmother who was still here instead, and rubbed the goosebumps off my arms. I shuffled out of the room with my head bowed. I went to receive a shallow embrace, exchanging the stain of my grandfather’s onto my clothes. As we left, I waved goodbye to the hound in dust, and thought I caught a look of recognition in its stone eyes, or maybe 

I’m just remembering it wrong.