Indifference and Reduction

I remember the sunken eyes. Her hollow cheeks. As if she was already gone. I remember her, how she looked, how she smelled, her voice. I cradle a blanket that has not been washed in four years just to search for her scent in between the white, woven linen fabric that she held for so long, the thick blanket clung to her body like she clung to it. Her body, her frail bones looking as if they were searching to break the confines of her skin, thin as paper, veins protruding like skinny blue rope wrapped around her body. She was dead long before she went, preparing for her death mummifying herself.

Sometimes, when I saw her, I could tell she wasn't eating, her body was too tired from just being awake; she could not keep anything down, a wicker waste basket next to the couch was what I would look for. Seeing if she had used it, because then, if she hadn't I could know that at least she would try to eat something, that she got food to eat, if she had already used her energy to go get something.

When I know that she hasn't eaten, I walk to the kitchen and I pull out her food-baby food, because she could not keep anything else down, add milk-if she could afford it-and I make her food in her shallow, floral-patterned bowls that she had kept from her marriage to my grandfather. I make just enough so that she is less likely to throw up. Grab her medication; I danced around the kitchen. A sad, melancholy melody that I had known for too long; I walk back to the living room, day-in and day-out. I do this same song and dance every time I check on her. I walk over to the couch that she sleeps on, riddled with burn holes from her-my grandmothers-many years of smoking.

I sit on the edge of the couch, always half-on and half-off. One leg held up by the couch and the other by my own accord, right next to her chest, gently shaking her awake, letting a soft grandma float in the air. She never startled, was always too tired. Her eyelids slowly peel back from her eyes, letting me see her deep greens. I then, as I always did, help her sit up, grabbing her shoulder and getting pillows to put behind her so she would not have to strain to sit up. She hated this part, me "babying" her, she never wanted me to do it-claiming that she could do it herself, but I would not let her get bed sores from laying on the couch for so long because she never did really sit up. I would always move her, try to keep her blood flowing so she would look like less of a corpse, and more like my grandmother.

The bowl of baby food, a metal spoon that's flat on the tip from stirring so much, sits sadly on her glass coffee table, wanting to droop from exhaustion-overuse. A pack of menthols-hers, a jug of ice cold water that always had skin particles floating in it, her weed she smoked so she could-try to-hold down food long enough to have a little energy, a bowl for the weed, a lighter, a nail file she used to clean the bowl, her purse, a tv remote we used to watch the Waltons, La Bamba, and every other movie that we could play on the DVD player. My wallet, my phone, my lighter, my knife, my pack of gum, not my keys, because I did not have a car, because I was only thirteen, taking care of someone else's-my-mother.

I would feed her small bites she could handle, dentures scraping metal every time. Leaning into the spoon, reminiscent of a rocking motion. I held a napkin under her chin every time so that if she dropped some, it would not get on her clothes. She appreciated that, silently grateful that I could keep her clothes clean.

Turn. Scoop. Scape. Wipe. Turn. Scoop. Srape. Wipe. Until the bowl was empty, or she got sick, whichever came quickest.

When I walk up to the house, for what would become the last time, I do it from muscle memory, my mind occupied on other things, a woman inside.

The sequence, as follows:

Four steps, not including the landing at the top. One. Two. Three. Four. Step up. Open the screen door. Put the house key in the doorknob. Twist the golden doorknob. Step up. Do not let the screen door slam, it's loud. Grab the keys. Twist the doorknob as you close the door. Latch the lock. Pull the handle to make sure it is locked. Take off your shoes before you step on the carpet. Six steps to the couch. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. She would always face the television, but this time she did not. Her head was where her feet were. It did not feel right. Look over at her end table, where her feet should be. A small picture of God, right at her head.

My thoughts, unfiltered:
This is not right. None of this is right. Why is it like this? She needs to be on the other end. Where is her cup? Why is her purse not on the coffee table? Her cigarettes? Where is it? Why is this so different from where she was before? None of this is right. Where is the wicker basket? Why is nothing where it is supposed to be? They were supposed to take care of her. Why is none of this right? Why can't you people do anything right! Why is everything so hard for you all to grasp! She doesn't like her house like this!

My mouth-contrast to my mind-stays shut, unmoving.

Sit down on the chair. Wicker. Grab her hand. Try to not let the tears flow. Hi Grandma. What I want to say is Hi, Momma. But I do not; this is not my mom. A woman who basically raised me, because my own mother could not, reduced to the title grandma. I felt like I was belittling her. She is more than my grandmother. I think I hear her say Hi, baby, back to me, but nothing really comes out of her mouth-nothing coherent at least. I know what she said. Nobody can take that away from me. No one. She talked to me.

I try to talk to her more. My words get caught, something stopping me from slipping my tongue around my teeth to even stutter a sentence. Syllables-when they make themselves known-come out shaky and jumbled. The words painful coming up, barbed wire lines my throat, constricting my movements. Through my teary eyes, ears ringing, I can hear my mom, my grandmothers' daughter. She calls my grandmother's sister, and tells her that it's time.

No.

I do not say this out loud; It will not help much.

Soon, everyone I know congregates around the couch, like we are about to pray over her body. We do. My Great Uncle says Gods' word over her like he knows the whole Bible by heart, and for a moment, I wish he does, because then maybe He can give us more time. Verses fly out of my mouth even though they feel foreign on my tongue.

Her breathing increases, decreases. Increase. Decrease. In. Out. In. Out. Over and over again. Gods' word is spoken over her. louder. Louder. Everything is so loud. Too much noise. I cannot think. Tears wash my cheeks like a steady stream of water. She is slipping. The grasp I have in her hand is tightening. I squeeze tight.

My thoughts, unfiltered:
No, I won't let you. You do not get to leave me. Don't you dare. Don't fucking leave me. You can't do this to me. You are not supposed to leave yet. You were supposed to see me graduate, we 're too young. Please. Please do not leave me. Momma, please don't leave me.

I think in my head. I do not say it out loud. It would not be fair to her for me to say that.

I look at the picture of God next to her head, and I stare. You did this. You fucking did this! Look at her! This is what you do, this is how you hurt people. How can you be a god when you will not take one life for another. You should be indifferent to change. Why can't you change this? Let them keep her, I'll go. I begged you! For years. Trade off! Take me instead of her! I think to the picture. Like the photo is real. Like he is real.

I look at her. My grandmother. Laying there, mouth agape. One breath in, rattle heavy in her throat. One breath out, all the air escapes her lungs, deflates. Gone.

Gone.

I am indifferent. I am indifferent to the change. Everyone around me is crying. I am indifferent. Everyone is weeping over her body. I just want to wrap my arms around her and keep her here. I am indifferent. Everyone is frantically trying to tell the nurse to bring her back. I am indifferent. Weeping. I am Indifferent. They weep. I am indifferent.

I stare at her body. Eyes open. Afraid. She can't even look at peace. What good are you if you can't give her peace after death.

Someone congregating around her body mutters that she is dead. No shit. Obviously she is dead. I wanted to say back. The tears do not come anymore. I do not understand. Why is everyone else crying? You do not get to mourn her. Get away! Get back, that is my momma. I want to scream. She is not your mother. Stop saying that. She is not your mom. Your mom's there, she is alive. No, she is laying on the couch, falling in between the couch cushions. Look at her. Someone get her. That is not your mom.

Not my mom. Not my mom. Not my mom. Not my mom. Not my mom. Not my mom. Not my mom. Not my mom. Not my mom. Not my mom. Not my mom. Not my mom.

September 26th, 2020. 2:36pm. A crisp day, the sun doesn't peek out behind the clouds, a child hidden behind a mother's legs. It does not rain, but it is wet, damp, humid, and hot. I do not care much for weather. I have more problems than weather. She lays, lifeless. Her body on the couch, she lays there. I cannot look past her. My mind runs faster than I process.

My thoughts, unfiltered:
How is this fair to me? Why do I go through this? They all had her for so long. They got to see her grow up. They got a healthy lady who could take them on walks, move, and be active. I got the lady who was too frail to fall over, for fear that she would break. They got the lady who was a mother, a nurse, someone who had a life, she was someone who could tell stories, she had a degree in human psychology. I got the woman who was sick. All she was, all she did, was be sick. Who begged God silently to take her life in her sleep because of her pain, just so she could see her father and brother.

Maybe she will greet her husband when he gets up there as well.

In the shower, back home, I cry. I grieve. I look up at the ceiling, I sob, weeping violent streams of tears. I cannot grasp where the water begins and my tears end.

Four days later, on September 30th, 2020, at noon, there was a service. Small, but big enough for her. Riverside Cemetery is where she is laid to rest. Her body lowered down into a six foot deep hole where she will rot for the rest of our existence. She was buried in a coral colored casket, a prayer book, a picture of god, photos of her grandkids-me and my two cousins-with her in the casket. A long time friend of hers-Bev-read off a letter that she wrote.

So that's what I heard.

Sometimes, even now, I sit in my bed and I wonder what my life would look like if she had just held on a little longer. I still cry like a child, violently rocking back and forth, tears cascading down my cheeks, collecting on the comers of my mouth. Grabbing at myself, my shirt being pulled in closer to my own body, scratching and pinching myself with my fingers, my body shaking from the heaviness of my heaving trying to gather enough breath for fear that I might pass out because of a lack of oxygen.

I miss her. I wonder what it is like to see her, to be able to touch her. I want to be able to conversate with her, to be able to know what her life was like growing up.

Sometimes, that urge, the overwhelming feeling, to see her, it gets too much to take on. Sometimes I contemplate, and I keep looking down at my hand-the mound of medication stacked high in my palm-and I wonder what it would be like to see her.

The plastic material that is on the outside of some medications, specifically sleeping pills, Valerian root, the capsules that hold the powder of the medication inside, so that the medication does not release inside your body right away but dissolves when it needs to, that part of the medication, when a lot is used at once, it will stick together when wet.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the two most important people to my in my life, my life-long best friend Maya, who stood by my side when my life collapsed around me, picking me back up again without making me feel horrible for relying on her, and my best friend, Eden, who was there for me whenever I need someone to talk to or someone to bounce an idea off of, they also stood by me regardless of my mental state. I would also like to thank my cat who gave me comfort when writing this memoir became too much for me, and gave me comfort in the way of swishing her tail in my face.

My peers, classmates, and professor really made this memoir come to life, so thank you to Ryan and Camille, for giving me the best feedback so early on into the creation of this memoir. Genivive Gibson, Natalie, Carley Anderson, Alyssa Frank, Landon, Blake, Jordan, Thomas-peers, and Keith Kroll, who helped me mold this memoir into what it is, even if I asked dumb questions along the way. Lastly, I would like to thank my muse, my grandmother Cindy Johncock-Sumrnerville, because without her, I would firstly, not be able to write this, because its about her, but most importantly, I would never have the creativeness that I do today without her and her love for literature, history, and horror which is greater than mine, her perseverance to do what was best for me, and the long talks we had into the early hours of the morning, so thank you, my love, I am forever indebted to you, and someday I hope I can pay it back.

Bio

Logan Johncock, a poet and writer, born in Kalamazoo, Michigan, grew up in rural Bloomingdale, Michigan. A freshman at KVCC, hoping to graduate in 2026 with an associates in English, planning on pursuing a higher degree in the future after completing community college.