Beach Day
I wonder if I chose only one moment to go back to, which one it would be? It might be the day Nana took me to the beach.
The summer before her ninety-seventh birthday, my grandmother, Nana, passed away in her sleep. She was living in an elderly care home, although I hesitate to use the word care. It wasn’t where she belonged, that’s for sure.
The place had an odor of canned spaghetti microwaved in a plastic container, combined with a musty smell, like mothballs or formaldehyde. Her narrow bedroom barely fit a twin bed and an easy chair in front of the TV. The first time I saw her in this place, I felt gutted by the sheer loneliness of it. I wanted to take her to live somewhere else, somewhere beautiful, maybe by the beach.
During an afternoon visit, I decided Nana needed new scenery. So we all got into the minivan as I drove us from Beverly Hills through Coldwater Canyon to the 101 freeway to our house. I didn’t give her a chance to change out of her purple velour bathrobe. “Ah, who cares anyway,” she shrugged, smoothing out the fabric with her wrinkled hands. “Yeah, you’re just coming over for a few hours,” I remarked, happy to have her with us. We parked in the drive and carefully helped her make it up the front steps, then I fixed her a plate of Jarlsberg cheese and Triscuits for a snack…
