It seemed like the thing to do at the time

I flew home and as soon as I could I was sitting at my grandmother's feet. Everyone in the family had warned me that she's been getting older. I must admit, I felt a little scared. It seemed that the last few times I had called, she had asked the same questions, "What's your address?" and then she would set the phone down on the table. I could see through the holes in my earpiece, down to the red and white checked cloth. I could see her making her way to her desk and picking up her address book. We would check, letter by letter, my current address. This ritual required real patience because my address is foreign sounding albeit, not entirely strange and there were always several starts and stops. Depending on what time of day our phonecall was, it could take 20 minutes. Mozartova. When I first moved to this street I was moving from U Studanky, or Fountain street, right in front of the Architecture school. Skinny students in black carrying big square bags would trapse by early in the morning. You had to watch the street for dog shit.

Coming into Boothbay, my mind spun in search of a gift. I'd handed out almost everything that I'd brought back and had only myself to bring. I pulled into the local supermarket and began to hunt for the perfect gift. Settling on potatoes and garlic over flowers and chocolate, checking out, my nerves began to jangle. When she opened the door, I could see the light in her eyes, moving slower, but it was there. She sat down immediately to watch me and I began to peel potatoes and talk, talk a lot, my nerves. I was so happy to see her but I couldn't sit down. I had to make something for her. I had to show her that I loved her. I couldn't simply look at her or touch her, though I wanted to badly.

Some things never change. She has three drawings taped to her broom closet, that I've made for her over the years. I'm proud to be the most represented grandchild in her gallery. The top one is from the summer we spent together. It's an abstract topographical map with the words 'The only day we have is today.' written in large letters. Underneath it, a self portrait of me, with my arms and legs spread as far apart as possible, 'I love you this much' in marker and then added at a later date 'maybe more' in pen. The oldest, is a picture I drew in '00 of myself in cartoon with 8 or so oblong orbes stretching from my face. She never has moved them. She loves me the most and I know it. I love her the most.

Some things about the house have changed. Her fireplace had been replaced with a gas burning stove so that she wouldn't have to climb the cellar stairs to bring wood up. Something she used to ask me to do each time I would come. There was no candy in the candy dishes. She took a cane from behind the door and hid it. Her chaise lounge is more worn. A few pieces of art have been given away, I assume.

We spoke only briefly about the details of life. I told her that I hated people asking Why I was anywhere, because generally I didn't know how to answer. She said, "Sweet lamb, you know people don't really care to know the answer, usually they're just making conversation. You can always say 'it seemed like the thing to do at the time.' " I've used that line over ten times in the last two weeks and although it doesn't accurately sum up why I've returned to the USA, it does make people nod, shake their head and move on to the next topic. I kissed her a lot. I've been kissing people. I describe it as an Italian grandmother alter-ego. Her cheeks were delicious.