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Teatime

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The room was silent, except for the sound of the teapot whistling. My sister Pam and I were at Gram’s house, waiting at the kitchen table while she prepared her favorite thing for all of us: Lipton tea and toast. This was the first cup I ever remember having. Tea was the remedy for any problem, any time, any day of the week.

Gram poured the boiling water into the cups. Pam and I stirred in unison, our eyes locked as we clanged the spoons against the side of the cups.

Gram buttered a slice of toast and placed one half on my plate and the other on Pam’s. I dipped it in the tea and lifted the slice to take a bite. That’s when I saw a tear run down Gram’s cheek and dropped my toast.

“Gram, are you crying?”

“No, no, I’m not crying, I’m in pain.”

“Why are you in pain?”

“Because I just had all my teeth pulled out, and my mouth hurts.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks because she was in pain, not because she was sad.

“But why would you have all of your teeth pulled out?”

“I never liked how they looked, so I had them all removed,” she said.

I barely noticed I had teeth, never mind inspecting how they looked. What could make someone not like their teeth? The concept of not liking them was far from things I thought about. They were part of me, like my eyes or my fingers.

“What will you use for teeth now? Will they grow back?”

“No, we only get two sets. This was my last set.”

There would be no more teeth growing back for her. I was absorbed, visualizing her words of teeth coming in and teeth going out, and now, no more teeth of her own.

“How will you chew?”

“New teeth, she said — false teeth.”

“How do those work?”

Pam didn’t say a word. She drank her tea, slowly chewed her toast, and didn’t add to the conversation, but I could tell she was listening by the tilt of her head and the way she stared at the floor with wide eyes. She sat sideways in her chair, turning her back to the conversation and letting me do all the talking.

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Chunk of Light

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I’m not a baby or an adult. I’m an in-between creature exploring the world, and I love my Grandparents’ home; to me, it is an ancient ruin. I’ve been staring at the ceiling since I put my head on the pillow. “Don’t close your eyes and waste the day,” I tell myself while lying in bed beside Grampa.

I don’t like naps; I feel awful when I wake up. I turn my back to him as he sleeps and snores in the shadows of the curtains. I’m annoyed and think, “Please stop with the pig noises.”

I want to look out the window, but the blinds are shut, cooling the dark, shadowy room against the hot summer day. I eye the cord that raises and lowers the blinds and think, I’ve got a solution! I shrink my body to thumb-size and fly to the windowsill. Being ever so quiet, I make myself small enough to sit on the loop of the cord and swing on it, and yes, it’s more fun than lying in bed listening to snoring.

I pump my legs, and with each swinging movement, the blinds rise just a little and fall, and then, with a small boom, the blinds hit the windowsill. Up, down, boom. Up, down, boom, and with that last boom, Grampa stirs, and I jump off the cord and stand motionless on the sill.

I like how small I feel, and the full-size me watches from the bed. We are friends, and I want to entertain her.

Where to now? I fly to the corner of the darkened room onto the great armchair beside Grampa and watch him lie tucked up on his side. I’m not worried about the room size. It’s not too wide or high for me to soar to the ceiling, and I circle, throwing myself into the air, fluttering from side to side. I watch Grampa sleep as I zigzag and dance above. His breathing stops and starts, and his receding hairline is fringed with thin strands that flow backward. His shirt rests over a round belly like a tent; he is in a dream world, and I can only guess what his dreams are made of. Mowing the lawn or trimming a branch of the willow tree to make a whip ready to use on my brothers’ butts if they act up — or maybe he dreams of mixing concrete to create a new walkway — or of painting the halls and rooms in this triple-decker house.

What’s the reason for his snoring? I listen and watch as his breathing engine stops and wait for it to restart. After a pause, he squeals; something’s not working right. Then he turns over, and he breathes again. His body relaxes, and Grampa rights himself and lies most decently and uncomplainingly composed. His body seems to say, “Death, you do not have me yet.”

Inspired by my new skill, I fly out of the bedroom and down the hall, moving effortlessly through the power of my imagination and sheer will, a thumb-sized child propelled by an idea. I fly to the parlor, a wide carpeted room with furnishings from the 1940s, and make a landing on the ledge of the wooden picture frame that surrounds a black velvet landscape painting. It’s a secret garden that hangs on the wall, and I stare at it every time I visit here, so it’s a regular thing. The painting draws me to it like a magnet, and I never tire of the soaring trees and enormous daydreaming opportunities I find there. The garden has rolling hills and green grass, allowing people to leisurely walk and sit along the stream. I’ve danced and strolled through these hills for hours without a hint of fatigue. Some people play chess, and games can last for days.

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Vienna

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I arrived at Logan International Airport in Boston, Massachusetts, checked in at the Delta terminal, and was free to roam. It would be hours of waiting before I could board a flight to England. I carried no luggage, only a backpack with one change of clothes, a T-shirt, and jeans, a few pairs of underwear, a toothbrush, and a hairbrush. My possessions were sparse. I could always manage with next to nothing. I longed to be unencumbered, to adapt to wherever I found myself.

I was nervous; I had never traveled alone to Europe and spoke no language other than English—but I wasn’t turning back. I spent most of the day outside, soaking in the late-summer sun.

In the 1970s, there were no lines to the boarding gates, no TSA, and passengers could roam the airport freely.

I found a spot on a cement wall and sat quietly when a man my age approached. Tall with a strong build, he smiled with warm, striking eyes. His dark, thick hair and beard were neatly trimmed, and his clothes looked like they were just ironed. He wore blue jeans, a tailored button-down shirt, and polished brown leather shoes. He was stylish and sexy.

He spoke English well, with an accent I didn’t recognize.

“Hello, are you waiting for the Delta stand-by flight to England?” he asked.

“Yes, I am.”

He moved closer and spoke carefully.

“Ah, I am, too. “Do you mind if I sit here with you?”

“It’s a cement wall; you can sit wherever you like,” I said.

“Okay, thank you very much,” he said politely, settling beside me.

He wore a gold bracelet, a gold watch, and one gold ring. I noticed the jewelry as he shifted one hand to his chest while speaking. He also bowed his head slightly. His movements were careful and concise—a clear sign that he wanted me to know he was friendly and had no plans to harm me.

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