grandmothers

The sound of the car wheels whispering along the road meshes with Grandmother’s snores and the faint noise of my mother’s humming as she drives. She prefers not to have the radio on during long trips.

Inside the car, it’s cold as a mall midsummer. Cold as a clinic, a hospital, a morgue. I can’t quite see my breath, but I’m wearing a sweater, while outside it’s 97 degrees — according to the dashboard gauge. The air conditioner roars its displeasure as we roll down the highway.

We are traveling with my reluctant grandmother from Mullinville, Kiowa County, Kansas, where she has spent all her life, to a West Coast nursing home near the neighborhood where my mother and I both live. Behind us are: her house, now up for sale; her Chrysler, also listed in the local paper; and her possessions, which my mother and I will return to sort through in a week.

The landscape spreads out with the pancake flatness of Kansas around us. Cottonwoods trace the edges of a meandering creek and its unseen waters. Irrigation sprinklers spread out green circles only visible from above, where a ribboned contrail shows a plane’s progress. Shimmers of summer heat prelude our arrival, as though we chase an oasis that never manifests.

My mother glances over at me. “Can’t sleep?”

“I thought you might want company.”

“I appreciate it. Though I can’t say that the silence hasn’t been welcome.” She rolls her eyes expressively towards the back seat.

“I heard that,” my grandmother says. It is unclear whether she is talking in her sleep or responding, so we wait. More faint snores come from the back seat, so we go back to talking quietly.