It's the 4th of July. There’s not much to celebrate this year, or any way to celebrate it if there were. We arrive at Alta Drive around 1pm. The house is empty, quiet, messy. We put down our things, I walk out back to the pool to put my feet in the water. The grapes on the vine along the fence are beginning to ripen. I pick a light champagne colored one; the inside is warm when I bite through the skin, as if it were a little pocket of sunshine. I pick a whole bunch and wade further into the pool. I yell with joy about the sweet grapes and the cool water. Papa tells me to be quiet: there’s a dove nesting on the fence. I creep closer and see her big eye looking doubtfully at me as she covers her eggs. There are persimmons hanging in the tree above the dove, but they won’t be ripe for a few more months.
It’s early June. The days of the week are meaningless. Mom recently had her last day of school, Lucien recently tested negative for COVID-19. Mom and I arrive in the late afternoon. The house is hot, the still air hasn’t moved in a while. There are things out on all the tables, but I walk past them to put my swim suit right on and join Nora in the pool. I sit under the tree to dry in the shade and reach up to pick a pluot. It’s a bit hard, but juicy and sweet, much sweeter than I’d expected. Laurie and Dana tell us old stories as we have dinner under the car port, all spread out. Before Mom and I leave the next day, I fill a paper bag of pluots. The hard ones will ripen in a few days.
It’s March 14th, a Friday. Papa and I arrive with Matt in the mid-morning. I’m taken aback by the green rocking chair out on the driveway. It belongs in the living room, by couch and the front door. The house is full and crowded, with people and things. I walk through the rooms, gathering things I don’t want strangers to touch, to take. And then I can’t take it any more and walk out to the train tracks. At dinner that night, all of us crowded around the round kitchen table, I ask if I should still go to Paris, and then find out my flight has been canceled. I don't remember what we eat or if there are fruits on the trees. I didn’t bother to check. I’m too preoccupied.
It’s Wednesday, March 4th. Papa and I arrive in the morning, a few hours before my DMV appointment. It’s a hot spring Sacramento day. The house is quiet, so quiet. Things are mostly as we’d left them in December. I’m afraid it's going to be hard to walk into the house again, and it is, but also not as hard as expected. We go to Vic’s for lunch, I pass my driving test, we get a chocolate milkshake to celebrate. Back at Baca’s, I dip my toes in the pool, and walk around the backyard. There are a few oranges left on the tree, up high and hard to reach. I use a chair, and then a latter, to pick as many as I can. They’re delicious, so so sweet and full of flavor. I eat them standing over the sink, letting the juice run down my chin and off my hands. I drop the peels in the disposal; their scent fills the empty kitchen as we leave.
It’s late December. It’s Christmas Eve eve. I sleep upstairs and dream that I walk down the stairs to see Baca sitting in the green rocking chair, by the couch and the front door. She is happily surprised to see me, and gives me a big hug. It’s a good dream. And then it’s Christmas eve, and Christmas Day. We go to Tahoe, we come back. It’s the memorial, and then the reception. The whole house is full of people. We push all the furniture out of the way and still it’s not big enough. I can't sleep, even long after the last lingering guests have left. I’m afraid my dreams won’t be as pleasant.
It’s December 8th. Papa and I arrive early morning, having left as soon as we could. We don’t say much on the drive, there’s nothing much to say. We go strait to the hospital. The little room is full, and fills up more throughout the day. We sing, we hold hands, we hold each other. I say I love you, I say goodbye. Papa and I leave the hospital in the evening. I don't want to be there for what's next. We drive to Alta to drop off Hilary’s suitcase. My heart breaks when I see her chair by the dining table, empty. I walk into one of the bedrooms and take my glasses off to wipe my eyes. After drying my tears, I go to pick them up and find a stray safety pin sitting right by them on the bed. I pocket it. I go into her bedroom. I look around, for I don't know what, and open a jewelry box on her dresser. There’s a safety pin sitting right at the top. I hold it tight and close the door. We drive home in the dark in silence.
It’s Wednesday night before Thanksgiving. We arrive late, in the dark. Papa wants to unpack, Mom and I are antsy to drive to the hospital, so we go without him. Baca is in a hospital bed, with Laurie and Nora by her side. They’ve been there since she was admitted that afternoon, and so they go home soon after we arrive. We stay a long while, until we too go home to bed. The next day, on Thanksgiving, Mom and I bring her a full plate with a taste of every dish. Nora texts me to say it seems like we forgot the sugar in the pumpkin mix, but it’s okay buried under whip cream. I laugh. How did we manage to forget the sugar? But it’s not a bad thing, it turns out, because it means Baca can have some without worrying about her sugar intake and her diabetes. She loves it, and asks for more.
It’s a Saturday in mid-October. We walk into the kitchen, my grandma Baca is in her seat by the dining table, her caretaker Aliti is at the counter. They're both happy to see us and greet us with hugs. I walk around the backyard, I pick a few persimmon’s off the tree, and then fill a bowl of them. We sit around the dining table, we tell stories, we eat dinner. It’s not a very memorable visit. I didn't know it needed to be. Mom and I leave after dinner, Baca is sorry to see us go, surprised we only came for the day; but we say we will be back soon, maybe in a few weeks, for Thanksgiving at the latest. On the drive home, I put the bag I filled with persimmons at my feet and snack on one, eating around the seeds. They were likely my last persimmons from this tree. I’d have picked more if I’d known. I’d have picked them all if I could.
In thinking of my beloved grandma, Baca, 07/06/1930 (Berlin) - 12/09/2019 (Sacramento).
Thank you for reading this far if you have. This thing is nothing if not a writing experiment.