My last words to her......

There she is, rocking slowly and rhythmicly in her rickety wooden rocking chair. Her hazel, half-shut eyes focusing on the boughs of the oak tree directly opposite the window.
Now a young lady of 21, I sit demurely in a corner of the sitting room, a paperback in my hands as I stare at her profile, perfectly outlined by the stream of sunlight pouring through the stain-glass window.
She is enjoying the view of the front porch surrounded by rose bushes and lilies, and of course, the giant oak tree in the centre of the garden.
My cautious eyes move to her face, where Grandma's cracked lips curve into a slow, beautiful smile with playful wrinkles crinkling at the corners of her eyes. I admire the curve of her strong back leaning against the wooden planks of her rocking chair, the gentle but coarsed hands which had stroked me when I was young, and of course, her white shock of hair with curls laying gently on her forehead.
Albeit the hardship that followed her past, she's still the brave septuagenarian I know......
I was only nine when both of my parents left me, stranded with nowhere to go because they had no choice, as they died horribly in a car crash in the old district of Pennsylvania. Enveloped in grief, I remember peering at the unfamiliar faces present at my parents' funeral. I hid behind a tough oak, cowering in self-consciousness, not really understanding the black bonnets and stiff expressions. I drew up my legs and hugged them tightly, praying that this was all a nightmare.
A gentle hand touched my shoulder lightly.Out of curiosity, I peered up through the folds of my skirt. An old woman with her gray hair tied up in a bun at the base of her neck drew herself close to me. She was about close to 50, with knobbly knees and moved in the slow cycle they always do.
I knew instantly that she was my long-lost grandmother and later in the evening, I was on my way to her town house with a small suitcase gripped between my callused fingers. Upon reaching her threshold, my eyes lit up at the sight of the ivory on the window slits and the slanting roof. Comfortable sofas, miniature china dolls and filmy curtains met my eager eyes as I ran about, admiring everything from the mould in between chunks of paint to the dusty, ancient attic.
The days that followed were pleasant enough.
I went to the local elementary school with brand-new textbooks under my arm and a lunchbox jingling over my shoulder. In the afternoons, I would help Grandma with the laundry and cooking. She was a humorous person, always beaming and full of life.
The days, months and years went by.
Autumn came and went, bringing winter, and along with it, Christmas. I can still hear my ringing laughter, see the lumpy stokings and taste the enormous turkey. Lights were strung onto the front gate where college kids came and sing a few carols. It was fun living with grandma, until that day......
It was dark. I wrapped a patched blanket around my shoulders tightly as I threw myself into the sombre world of Sherlock Holmes. Reaching out for a warm cup of hot chocolate, my frozen fingers touched an equally frozen cup. Throwing the book onyo my purple eiderdown, I crept towards the kitchen silently. I was not difficult to catch sight of the light shining from a crack in grandma's door. I was astonished, as it was not her habit to stay up late.
I guess curiosity overcame me as I pushed the door to grandma's room. She glanced up, strands of silvery hair flailing about her face, her forehead glistened in sweat. I knew that something was wrong because of the look on her unusually pale face. It was a few minutes later when she reluctantly told me that the money left by my parents were finished, zip, nada...... We were now fully on our own, not that I minded much though, except that it was hard for grandma who will have to work now that I was her responsibility.
We packed and left her old townhouse. Getting on the freight train, we seemed to move on and on until we found it.
A garret under the roof of a dirty pub. My new home.
There's no need to tell you straight out that we had definitely fallen on hard times. Living in a garret was a like living in hell, only better because of the view I get across the city. The landlady was nasty, and smelled like rotten cabbage. I thought she poured a whole bottle of perfume onto herself as she smelled sickly.The nights were terrible too, because of the raucous laughter and constant buzz of argument in the pub downstairs.
I complained, whined and even sulked. But Grandma bore it with immense heroism.
She worked hellishly long hours at the pub, washing dishes and scrubbing floors. She cleaned all of our soiled linen and dried them upon a line. She even took the slops down to the street every evening and carried up the water, stopping for breath at every landing.
I came to know what heavy housework meant and the odious care of the kitchen. I quit school and buried my rosy nails into greasy pots, pans and the filled -to-the-tip ashtrays. I worked and worked, not daring to rest, until there came a day when I collapsed.
My forehead burned and I can feel goosebumps running the length of my limbs, making me shiver all over. Grandma took one glance at me, then shouted out for the doctor. My vision was getting blurry by that time and I can't seem to breath well.
I thought I was going to die, just like my parents. I was reluctant to leave Grandma alone though.
She sat beside me the whole day, holding my clammy hand and praying fervently.
As I woke up from a deep slumber the next day, I caught sight of Grandma slightly dozing off in the only chair, wrinkles all over her face. She seemed to have aged 10 years just sitting there, looking after me.
Hot tears welled up under my eyelids as I removed my hand from her grasp.
Now, eight years later, I'm sitting on a heavy chair in the corner of the sitting room in Grandma's townhouse, glancing at her profile.
It's still fresh in my mind. The hard labour and the cramped feeling of being inside the same room as Grandma. We eventually saved enough money to move back into her house, her peaceful sanctuary.
Looking at her still figure and her serene face, I wiped away a trickling tear. "Goodbye, Grandma Olivia......" were my last words of gratitude and thanks that will accompany her through her last journey.