Will you read a short story about an amazing woman in my life? And, maybe even critique it?

It is excepted by most and fundamentally known by all that, as we age, our oh-so-delicate minds begin to slip. Whether it is our memory, our feelings, our functions or our abilities, we begin to fail. Have you ever thought about it? Day to day, is this depressing fact of the utmost importance to you and constantly pestering your forethoughts? And your elderly loved ones, do your thoughts snap to them when hearing such information? I will say, for most of my life, I would easily answer no to each and every one of these odd, but linked, questions. Why? I had never been affected by such traumatizing events. Never had I been torn between logic and love in a heart- torturing situation. Not until Nana came up from Florida to visit. Not until nighttime. Not until she accepted death by her own hand. No, not ever had I considered such a plague could reach my resolute Nana.

For all my life, Nana had taken up residence in Florida, the home of the elderly and retired. She fit the bill, and moved there with my uncle (which years later became my aunt and little cousin). In Florida, it’s sun-drenched and warm, which for wrinkly, cold, old people, sun is a nice friend to have all year round. As years increased, so did age. But Nana stayed strong, for she was a strong, fighting woman. She listened to her doctors and took all her pills. “Yes, Nana, you are an obedient patient,” age sneered. Age had yet to bite her.

Summer would come, as every did. Nana would come, as she always did. “Nana, oh Nana, you’re here!” I would screech as her suitcase, and then her frail and slender leg would peep into the room. And a short, crinkle- face lady would hobble in with a small little bag full of a pearl necklace, old-lady makeup and memories. So, I would hug her, but gingerly as I was afraid I would snap her toothpick of a body if I squeezed too hard. Nana, well she squeezed back just as cautiously because soft touches are Nana touches.

And then came summer like a train, impacting us with sudden and extreme force. They were whole summers full of sun-drunk laughs, little kid whispers, and CANONBALL bathes for a temporarily dry, guarding grandmother. Then of course, at the end of an exhausting day, Nana bundled up her warmth, love and care, and tucked it into the covers next to me with a good-night kiss. And before I could say the night in good-night, I was lulled to a deep sleep filled to the point of overflowing with sweet dreams of the next day.

This summer, though, this summer of which I speak, was not like those ones. Nana was different. She metamorphosed into a woman I had never even met. Her wrinkles, a testament to her timeless wisdom and age, had seeped into her brain, and poisoned it. It rotted her memory, which it distroyed. They call it Sundowner’s Syndrome, and I can see why. When the sun said good night, left me all alone and all of those bright days abandoned, Nana became a tormented and confused animal. And she fought, every night with daddy, about what was keeping her alive. She renounced the offer (even though it was more of a requirement) to take her vital pills.

Each night, the arguments amplified in heated screams and stupid logic that daddy defended, whilst Nana spat back empty and unguided reasoning. It was a drive, a force to be just as contrary as possible. But my poor Nana, so frustrated, battled back, only to gulp down her health at the end of fatiguing skirmishes every night. These little pity skirmishes were nothing compared to that of which was almost upon our family.

That morning, we felt it in the air. It was coming like clouds before a storm. The air was weighted knowledge of that night, that stormy night of which it was about to be. Yes, my family knew. It nauseated me to see my sweet little nana, so innocent and meek, chew a quarter of a quarter of a quarter of a bite of buttered English muffin, as it would all soon be so different.

“Good morning Nana,” I said, almost screamed, as she can no longer hear. But, the stubborn child she is whispers in her ear that she mustn’t were her hearing aids, hence forth she doesn’t.

“Good morning sweetheart,” she beams back, content with just simply being. It didn’t quite matter where she was or what she was eating, doing or not doing. She patted my hand as I sat down next to her. Her skin molded to the form of my hand as it was saggy and flopped about, which sent shivers down my back. All I could think was, oh Nana, what happened?

So we marched on through the day at gunpoint with fate at the control. Anticipation and paranoia were the two dominating feelings in the stiff air that drooped in the room Nana sat in. And she didn’t mean it. No, she was so innocent, almost too much so. It was painful, as there was no one I could point my finger at and blame, and so that homeless guilt chose residence in me. But it never patched up this open wound, as guilt is so incapable of doing. And so, in just a few hours, this gash began to bleed again.