Grandma's Smile

         Mother and I arrived on time.

         In the solemn stillness of the church, broken only by the melancholy chords being struck from an unseen organ and the occasional cough or sniffle from the smattering of dark-clad guests in the pews; the set up was, otherwise, quite pleasing to the eye.

         The mid-morning sun filtered through, recently renovated, stained glass windows of Christ and his apostles. This gave the, rather, mesmerizing illusion of being bathed in rainbow-hued sunlight. Said light illuminated the altar, which was laden with large wreaths of roses, chrysanthemums, and peonies. They seemed to embrace the black mahogany casket, which sat morbidly in front of the pulpit as childhood nightmares of its occupant tossing it open and sitting up with an evil cackle briefly flickered through my mind.

         Fortunately, it remained closed – for now – but it didn’t deter one from focusing on the large blown-up photograph of the person we had come to honour.

         It was a black and white photo – Mom had taken it a couple of years back – and it was just about the best out of the pitiful options we had to select from. Apparently, her subject had not been a fan of being photographed. Still, this particular image just about embodied what made my grandmother such a unique character.

         It was, actually, a stunning portrait. She was in her late seventies then; her features telling of the many lives she had lived. Her aquiline nose spoke of her Greek roots punctuated with a rather unsightly pimple on its bridge. Liver spots dotted the wrinkled flesh; darkening and giving more character to the deepened lines etched upon a weathered countenance. Her eyebrows were thick with silver hair, and if you dared to look closer, you would have found matching hairs sprouting around her chin.

         Her hair was a, surprisingly, still thick mass of white curls that were kept in an unruly ponytail on her head. A few loose tendrils cradled the sides of her face, and you fully expected them to start moving with how detailed they appeared in the photo.

         However, as one might expect when such an image is taken, it wouldn’t be surprising to expect the subject to smile, correct? Unfortunately, mother had failed in getting that little action carried out. I can still remember her complaints about how hard it was to convince Grandma to show some teeth (even if they were dentures), but all she had received was the same downturned curve of thinned lips that seemed to suggest that the very act of smiling would have been too much of a chore.

         Anyone looking at that blown-up photograph, for the first time, would be taken aback at such a dour expression. She might have been considered unapproachable or snobbish. She did not seem to radiate any warmth, and you’d be hard pressed to find anything good to say about such a person…

         …unless one took a much closer inspection of the pair of eyes staring, seemingly, into their soul.

         The black-and-white was an injustice to just how piercing her hazel eyes were, and even in her older years, they still held a world of intelligence and passion that had won my grandfather’s heart during the Great War. Though old age had caused the wrinkles to make her appear heavy-lidded, those wrinkles would also tell of just where you could find my grandma’s true affections, for they made up for what her lips could not perform.

         Her eyes made up for her brusque tone when speaking – ‘Do not march into the house with those boots, young man. You’ll ruin the carpet.’ Or ‘Watch your tone now, Mister. You are not too old to be bent over and given a good spanking.’

         Ah, oh what spankings they were with hands that felt like blades of ice on my sore bottom.

         Strong, yet knobbly with arthritis, I was always curious as to why they always felt cold to the touch especially with how warm she kept the temperature indoors. When I dared to ask, I was simply given the answer:

         “Because God made them that way.”

         Luckily, Mom would later take the time to explain that it was due to grandma having poor vascular circulation in her hands and feet. It was why Mom was always adamant she wore gloves and socks as often as possible; and grandma – being as stubborn as she was – almost never listened to Mom’s advice.

         My overactive imagination would sometimes fear her hands and feet would eventually get so cold they’d fall off, and if I caught her dozing off in her favourite chair without her mittens or socks, I’d carefully place a blanket over her so nothing was exposed. If she noticed what I had done, when awake, she made no mention of it.

         I could feel the burning sting of tears as I clutched Mother’s trembling hand in mine. The eulogy she had given was beautiful, and as we made our way to the now opened casket to pay our final respects, I looked out to a church now brimming with all the lives Grandma had touched while alive.

         There was not a dry eye in the house.

         She might have lived in a little farm house, out in the sticks, but it didn’t stop her from baking cookies or pies, or delivering eggs or fresh fruits and vegetables to those who needed them in nearby towns. Come rain or shine, seeing my grandmother’s red truck pulling up to driveways – especially after another devastating storm – was always a welcome sight.

         Until she passed away in her sleep - Grandma Angie, as she was lovingly called - kept herself as busy as possible; never letting on that she was dealing with an illness.

         As Mom and I stopped before the casket, the tears would escape at the improbable sight before me, for though barely perceptible, there was no mistaking the subtle upward curve of my grandmother’s lips in silent reassurance that she was now at peace.







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Winning Entry
Word Count: 1000 words
Written For: "The Writer's Cramp" 
Prompt: Cold Hands, Warm Heart. It's a curious saying: “Cold hands, warm heart.” It proposes that people whose hands are usually cold actually have kind and loving personalities. Your submission should have a character that this saying can be applied to.