advil ad infinitum

art by Katherine Shi, writing by Sana F.

On Mondays and Wednesdays, it was like the Sun herself waited for me in the Kiss and Ride lane. I didn’t know of any other grandmas who drove a bright red car or wore blue eyeliner, so I decided I had the coolest grandma out of everyone in my class. I made sure to tell them. When I got older and you started picking me up at the bus stop, I’d grimace slightly at the sound of your voice ringing through the air in anticipation of wet kisses on both cheeks; but even then, you lit up my world. We would make granola and lasagna and the red warmth of the oven felt like your smile. We painted flowers with watercolor and you taught me that I only needed the littlest bit of paint to make a beautiful color. You said it was okay to leave spots of empty paper as highlights: those places are just as much of the picture as the paint. 

It began as all fevers do: confusion, chills, restlessness.

At first, it was your frequently furrowed brow, more misplaced things and names and faces, and the distant look in your eyes that would come and go like a flickering light. The months went on and the fever set flame to the winter frost; still, you shivered into the summer heat, huddling in a fleece jacket even as drops of sweat pearled on your forehead. Your ever-fidgety hands went from knitting and gardening to picking at the seams of your clothes and tearing apart magazine pages into smaller and smaller pieces. You stopped eating. You stopped speaking. The graceful fingers that once guided my paintbrush through poppies and berry bushes froze in place. Then, the fever set flame to your mind: it burned you up until it took my name from your lips and locked it away in your heart—nestled alongside your childhood memories, the words you never got to say, and your grandmother’s voice. 

We tried to cool you down with sixties tunes, photo albums, vanilla ice cream, and by using your name in every sentence. Gram, isn’t the weather beautiful today, Gram? 

Then, with pills, bed rest, and child-proof locks.

One night, the fever’s inferno raged inside your head as you threw off your covers 

and felt your way 

down the banister 

in the dark.

Your hands found the doorknob and your sweet voice trembled.

I want to go home.

You’ve gone to a new home now. We visit you in that room with empty walls, in that place with long hallways and nurses.

There’s a string of photos on the walls. The garland reads: Best Grandma Ever! 

Your mind is like a silent blizzard, your hair snow-white, your hands thin, and inside your head, the fire that burned all of you away retires with a sigh. There are no more memories to singe and the ash settles.

You lie in your bed shrouded in a rosy haze, your shuddering breath softened by your pale smile and pink pajamas.

I wonder if your fever world is as quiet as this place. I wonder who knocks on your mind’s door: your mother, your son who passed away long ago, a ten-year-old me at the bus stop wriggling from your arms.

We kiss your hands,

we hum, 

we search for words, 

and the nurse knocks on the door.

It’s time for your medicine, Miss Royce!  

All I want is to go back to the bus stop

And freeze you in time, stop the burning but warm your chills

I hate this place and that it will not bring you back with your honey perfume and your shining eyes and big laugh and red car

I wish you were a watercolor flower with every spot filled in

The empty parts are all that’s left

Today, you will not look me in the eyes

I will kiss your forehead

I will walk out the door 

I will go back to school

And one day, without your guiding hand on my paintbrush

I will try to let the flowers grow

I will walk down the aisle

I will become a woman

I will close my eyes and warm my hands on your memory

But today

The nurse will give you your pills

I will try to see you in the embers

Tomorrow, too

I will wait 

for the fever to 

break