Secret Admirer

My foot is kicking a dream ball as I awake.  The smell of coffee tickle my nose, inviting my eyes to open.  As they start to focus I see a greyheaded woman lying next to me on the unfamiliar double bed.  My heart sink as I remember: I am having a sleep over at grandma's.

My first memory of visiting her was when I was only three years old.  The corners of grandma's mouth were dragged down, as if imaginary strings were tied to the ground. I cried that I wanted to go home, but grandma would get annoyed at my sobbing.  "You won't die without your mother!", she said, "You may as well stop your wining, you'll be back home before you know it." I am much older now and  has learned not to show my true feelings around her.

My eyes slowly move around the small bedroom.  single bed against the wall, neatly made, with a black and grey photo of a man and woman above it.  Their faces look serious like they did at war time. Grandpa once told me it is a wedding photo of his mom and dad.  I would stare at it for hours, trying to find traces of hope and happiness.

Slurping noises came from the kitchen, encouraging me to get up.  Grandpa is up already, an early riser, just like me.  I carefully leave the bed not to wake the sleeping body next to me.  As I tip toe through the lounge,  I can smell the scent of old people.  The furniture is simple, yet everything that is needed for comfortable living; no more,no less.

As I enter the kitchen grandpa looked up from the book on the table. "You're up early?" He says slowly, as if he has just woken up himself.  Grandpa loves his quiet time in the morning.  It is his time for contemplation without disturbance from anyone, except for me when I visit.

"What are you reading?" I asked, hoping he would tell me a story, like he normally does when we have our unplanned morning meetings.  "I'm reading about love."  he says with a serious but calm look on his face.  "That it is patient and kind, and is not jealous." He stares out in front of him as if he has forgotten that I am there.  And I know he is thinking about grandma.

I remember a previous morning sitting at the dining room table in deep conversation with grandpa, he suddenly stopped talking, staring out to the bedroom door.  I was invisible for the next few seconds.  I turned around in my chair and I could see a glimpse of grandma's naked reflection in the dressing table mirror.  I looked at Grandpa and he turned to me, leaning forward and whisper "It is the only pleasure I have left. That, and the memories."

Grandpa is always fond of talking about the past, but what ever happened to turn grandma's smile upside down as if she is constantly swallowing bitter spit, will be a family secret that I may never uncover.  Is Grandpa's love so patient that he is content with a life of secret admiration for the woman he still love and adore?