“Kia”
By Sarah Manuel
The thick summer air hovers around the living room. It’s soaking up and taking in the sweet
stale scent of old cigarettes
and too much lemon. A breeze trickles through the open window, teasing me
and my heightened senses.
I’m waiting.
She’s waiting
too, but in the kitchen. It’s always an island of flames in there with the oven alive in the heat
of the day. I wish she would sit down, but instead
she’s baking summer squash, just the way
we like it. Those soft aged hands know their job, she’s not thinking, she’s
listening for
the loving trill of her Nokia.
My little Greek grandmother is always listening because that’s
what she does.
I know my role well. My legs are much younger and have not yet
endured knee replacement surgery, sand-colored orthopedic shoes or,
God forbid,
age. So I’m her feet. That’s why I think I’m waiting.
With neglected
book in hand and my mind on cooler thoughts, I migrate
to the porch where,
God willing,
the air, and maybe even time,
will move.
The cast iron frames of patio furniture are filled with the same old yellow, blue, and white
striped cushions, flattened with age and too-long conversations. It’s where my
grandfather used to sit,
smoke, and just be. Wind
chimes used to join him, dangling there with their welcoming clanging. Now they’re both
gone. All the sound that remains is the traffic zooming by and my heart
in my ears pounding out its anticipation for the arrival of
a call.
All too soon my ears are assaulted. The wall phone ekes out its shrill cry for
attention. The moment has come but
my grandmother doesn’t even look up from the stove.
She knows better. She’s waiting
for the answering machine to screen her caller first. The caller
knows. It’s not the first time. The beep comes.
It’s my Aunt from down the street, imploring
my grandmother in a Siren tone to
pick up!
That’s where I leap into action, and with all the dexterity and skill of an experienced
telemarketer, I answer the phone.
But that’s not what she’s waiting for. And I think I know
her well enough to guess that
what she’s waiting for isn’t in her hand. It’s sitting on
the little cast iron coffee table
outside, all its numbers lovingly rubbed thin, the name
“Kia” only just remaining at the top.
The familiar silence returns, along with me to my seat and her to her
lemons.
The sun is starting to go down, and the haze begins to thin. Scents of butter, olive oil, and
too much lemon break past the barrier of heat, coercing
me into my lawn chair. To my right sits the spindly little table, with its silvery guest perched on
top. “Kia” looks at me and I
look at it. It wonders
what I’m waiting for. And suddenly
I don’t know whether I’m supposed to answer the phone
or call it.
