marie (demo)

Her hair looked flatter. Less curls, cropped closer to the scalp and definitely more white. Kind of like silk that’s been in the wash so many times it lost its luster. She’s very short. I don’t think she even reached my shoulders. I couldn’t tell if she’s shrunk or if I’ve grown too much. Her shoulders seemed more hunched over too, spending too many years leaning over the large hospital beds of sick children as a retired nurse. The folds on her face didn’t take away from the intelligence in her blue eyes, large and filled with poise, with sagesse—rather, wrinkles made her pale skin look weathered yet delicate, like gossamer paper, like thin gauze that’s been battered and stretched but remains brittle and unyielding all the same.

I forced a smile as she entered through the front door, waving at my father to put down her small suitcase and bag. I let my great-aunt greet my mother first, before I bent down to kiss her on both cheeks, laughing light-heartedly even though no one said anything funny. My father guided her to my brother’s old room, now baptized the “guest room”, and her and her luggage disappeared through the double doors.

“Marie-France is very sweet,” my mom said, picking her mug of tea again. “I’m glad she’s finally visiting us, baby.”

My father made a non-committal sound as he picked up the mail. “I’ll make her a coffee later.”

I had no real bond with my great-aunt. I’ve seen her almost every summer since I was young, as we would often go to the small village at the base of the Alps where she lived in a quaint house still heated via fireplace. The floor was tiled and the living room was too familiar; my cousin and I would spend hours in front of the TV, sitting through ads that lasted too long and episodes that lasted not long enough. The only breaks we would take was if the rest of our friends called us for a couple games of pétanque or if he wanted a Nutella sandwich. If nothing good was on, we’d jump on the armchairs or lay on the cooling tile floor to draw. Those poor armchairs were familiar to the eyes—beat up and green—to the touch—coarse but supple—to the smell—a whiff of something sweet, like some sort of creme dessert, and dirty, unwashed dog. Patou the golden retriever died a couple years back. He was sixteen.

Since the house was built on a steep incline, stairs ran off the side of the dining room to reveal the lower floor. The steps were steep and revealed her room, my cousin’s room(usually empty unless he was staying there for the summer too), a modest garden and outdoor kitchen, as well as a wine cellar. We were in France, after all.

Her room was small. A double bed and a simple dresser. No mirrors. No pictures, or anything to reveal anything. She did have the door to the spandrel, implanted in the middle of a rough rock wall, where my cousin and I were once tasked to fetch the mop and bucket only to be locked in the stuffy dark for twenty minutes. I don’t remember ever crying that hard. When my great-uncle opened the door, I thought of him as an angel—a wrinkly and jaded angel, of whom I had no real attachment to. My great-uncle died a couple years back too. He was ninety-three.

Author Notes: excerpt of a longer piece called "yellow bellied"

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