Sparrow

1 Somebody's singing the blues. Somebody's feeling like it's the end of the world. Sorrow drowns out the running dish water in the kitchen and the honk of traffic downstairs. If I had the voice for it, I'd sing right along. I try to follow the thread of music, but G'ma is calling loudly to me. Today must've been a lonesome day, for her to pull those old records out again. No surprise, cooped up like she's been these past months. And me, I'm not exactly a breath of fresh air. I don't have "young friends" to bring over and "put life" into the place, as G'ma would say. My seventeen's not the ice cream social it was for G'ma in her day. Not since it's just the two of us. "Kendall, are you listening to me?" she hollers through the kitchen doorway. "Yes, ma'am." I wash the last of the lunch plates, bits of ham and sandwich spread rinsing down the drain. Of course I'm listening. Everyone in the building's listening to her too. G'ma's not a quiet woman when she's upset. "You'd better be listening, 'cause your grandmother didn't raise a fool." I dry my hands and go into the living room to get my coat. G'ma's sitting there on the sofa, waving my report card at me. For a minute, she looks like her old self again, a strong, serious woman, with skin like sweet brown coffee, not dark and bruised-looking like mine. "Cream in my coffee," she used to say to me. " 'Cause my mother wanted me to grow up sweet." They forgot the sugar, I'd want to say to her some days, but she would just shush me up for sassing. She's got that shushing face on now. Her tough love face. I've seen it more than once since she took me in. And today I've let her down big-time. "Now, you go right back over to that high school and tell that teacher you want to do extra-credit work, however much it takes, to get your grades back up. My granddaughter is a good student and she's going to graduate with the rest of her class." G'ma swats the sofa arm with my report card, then places it gently down beside her. I sit across from the sofa on the edge of our old armchair, hands clasped and head down. "Yes, ma'am." The blues song fades, and another one comes up. I remember the name of this one. It's Sarah Vaughan singing "Misty." Look at me, I'm as helpless as a kitten up a tree . . . "It's only midterms," I say, like that helps. "I know my science, and English, too. I can get my D up to a B by the end of the semester if I do well on the final." G'ma takes out a handkerchief and wipes invisible crumbs from her mouth. "Don't put all your eggs in that basket," she warns me. "You were such a good student. Stay that way. I know it's been difficult, but don't let this"she waves her hand in the air"don't let this stop you." "This" means G'ma. We don't talk about it much, but we both know the stroke she had last summer hurt her more than a little. The afghan over her lap reminds me that her legs aren't what they used to be. Winter doesn't help either, especially not the icy winter Chicago gets. We keep up the exercises the doctor gave her, and they help. She's walking with aSmith, Sherri L. is the author of 'Sparrow', published 2008 under ISBN 9780440239451 and ISBN 0440239451.