Today, I wondered for the first time who my grandmother thought I was.
I’d gone into the kitchen to fix some lunch. I wasn’t sure what I wanted; I would scavenge in the refrigerator until something promising came to the fore.
My grandmother was in the kitchen. When she’s upset, she tends to wander nervously. “They need to move their car,” she said.
Obviously, I had no idea who “they” were. “What car? Where?”
“The one blocking the driveway. People can’t come up the road.”
I looked out the three kitchen windows. I didn’t see anything to the front. I saw my grandmother’s car out the side window. I saw my parents’ car out the back window. In short, everything was where it was supposed to be.
I shrugged, said nothing, and went in the refrigerator. There were American cheese slices in the meat tray, and I considered that for a moment. Then I saw a banana on the table, and I had a much better idea — peanut butter and banana.
“That car needs to move,” my grandmother said again, insistent. She pointed out the kitchen door.
I shut the refrigerator door, looked out the kitchen door, saw my parents’ red Kia precisely where it was supposed to be. Surely that couldn’t be the car she was upset about. “What car?” I said.
“That car!” She pointed again.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The red car!”
“What about it?” I said.
“It can’t sit there! It’s blocking the driveway.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It shouldn’t be there.”
“Why shouldn’t it be there?”
“It’s blocking the driveway.”
“But it’s not. Where else would they park?”
“Who?”
“My parents. It’s their car.”
“I don’t know that. I’ve never met your parents.”
At that point, I ignored her questions, slicing instead the banana, layering the peanut butter onto the bread, and eating the peanut butter straight because I really do love peanut butter. Continuing the conversation would have been pointless.
My peanut butter-and-banana sandwiches were excellent, by the way. I put mini chcolate chips on one. The banana was quite ripe. :party: