SandScript 2020

VISUAL ART
wheelchair, and the painted red matador’s
cape swept above Grandma Missy’s head.
The picture must have been taken just
weeks before Randall’s death. Grandma
and her sister seemed well; they still had a
healthy weight but nervous waiting-for-theroof-to-fall
smiles while Randall was all in.
He personified that poem I read at school
about not going gently into a good night. His
head rested against the chair back at an odd
angle because I imagined he couldn’t lift it.
The bright noon sun reflected on the black,
bruised pattern on his forearms. I wondered
that someone who was that thrashed by
cancer could still curl his lip in anger.
The second picture was taken at
least six months, maybe eighteen months
later, because snow covered the peaks of the
stark blue mountains in the background,
and there was a low winter sun. Elisabet
had probably already had her heart attack
because she was thin, and her smile was
accepting, unlike Randall’s demeanor had
been. I would have to wait for a lucid day to
ask Grandma why she didn’t bring Elisabet
back to Ohio after her husband’s death, why
she didn’t come home. But I respected it was
a twelve-year-ago decision, and it must have
made sense at the time. Probably had to do
with money. Hand-to-mouthers make a lot
of compromised choices.
Last Sunday, or maybe Saturday,
Grandma had a wakeful, focused day. I
told her about Tonya, and we talked about
as much family as she could recollect. The
best part of being in this dreadful coffin of
a trailer was when we could visit like that,
me telling her who she was when she was
young—that she had finished high school,
and enough nursing school to be certified.
That she wanted to be a Licensed Practical
Nurse but that she married and had
children and put them first. Then just like
she knew my thoughts, or maybe I knew her
mind, she said, “Don’t you stay here when
this is over. No matter how it ends, promise
me you’ll leave.”
She put out her hand, and when I
took it, Grandma Missy pulled me near. I
looped my finger gently around the bent
hook of her little finger. “I will. I promise I’ll
go and not look back.” As if not looking back
made it more a pinky promise.
Taylor Tang
Calm
Painting, 20”x16”
148