Contentment from fear

The first time that I can recall visiting my grandmother was when I was about five years old. The only thing I remember about the visit was her half-smiling and asking me if I had gone to Sunday school that morning. Being so young, it was difficult to describe what I felt, but I remember I was very uneasy. Now, I know I was frightened.

The house looks the same now as it did the first time I remember it. It is an old frame house covered with gray, imitation brick. The porch was painted a darker gray, and on it was gray swing which never failed to squeak when it moved. To the left of the house were two old pine trees, with branches so thick they kept the sun from shining through. The grass over their roots was always dry and dead and covered with brown needles that had fallen from the lower branches. The grass in the small backyard was always untidy. Every time I saw that house I felt a twinge of fear. It seemed very old, very desolate and it never changed. It reminded me very much of my grandmother.

I recall how reluctantly I walked up the steps to the front door. I knew exactly what I would see and hear each time I walked into that dimly lit, drab living room: my grandmother sitting on the gray couch just to the right of the door, my grandfather in the recliner to the left of the door, but he never frightened me. He moved about and talked, but my grandmother didn't. She just sat there on the couch in the same gray print dress, staring blankly out the front window, as if waiting for someone to come. This was odd, I thought. She was healthy enough so why just sit and look out a window? Even though she was old, I thought she could find something better to do. Maybe I was just afraid of my grandmother.

I always asked my mother if I could go out an play. I had to get out. Outside, I'd head straight for the car and jump in. I'd to sit behind the wheel and play bus driver. I wanted to drive away as fast as I could. Each time I had to stop for a traffic light, though, I would think about my grandmother. I wondered why I wanted to get away from her. After all, she had never been mean to me, but I just couldn't bear to watch her look out that window. I wondered what she was looking for. When I got out on the front porch, I would look far down the street, but I never saw anything. Everything always looked so normal to me.

I think I played bus driver every Sunday afternoon for the next seven years. Every time I went to see her she sat in the same place, looked the same way, and caused me to feel the same way too. But one Sunday, we left to see her, but we did not go to her house. This Sunday I did not feel so uneasy and I had no desire to flee. This Sunday we went to her funeral.

As I stood there and looked at her, I was finally not afraid. She lay there peacefully in a pretty pink dress and seemed more content than I could ever remember. When we went to her house after the funeral, I stopped before going in. I paused and looked once more down the street where I had seen her stare so often. I still saw nothing strange, but I felt content. I was not happy that she had died. In fact, I now missed her a little. Yet, I could not help but feel she had finally seen what she had been looking for, for so long.