{ A lirez a Ta h er i A r agh i { GR A M M A
Gramma was eighty-seven. It was a week Gramma was dead. When the doctor was examining Gramma, I was peeping through the keyhole. He pulled Gramma’s skin-and-bone hand out from under the blanket and took her pulse as he was staring at the ceiling. Then he placed her hand back under the blanket. He closed his eyes and shook his head, meaning that she was gone, and started to pack his things. His green eyes were so beautiful, bastard! When he closed his bag I ran back to the sofa and picked up the remote. They came out of the room; mom and the doctor. He had a pot belly but a couple of sit-ups would take care of that. “You mean you can’t you do anything, doctor?” “I’m sorry, but it’s a week she’s gone.” Mom closed the door. “Go feed Gramma,” she told me. Gramma’s food was soup juice; soup passed through a fine sieve so there would be nothing solid in it. I went into Gramma’s room. She was on bed, leaning against the pillows like a crumpled newspaper. “Arash!” she said. “It’s me Gramma.” I set the tray on the small table by the bed and sat down on the floor. “Arash!” “It’s me Gramma. It’s me Azi, Azi.” She raised her hand slowly and rubbed the length of her finger on her wrinkled throat and raised her eyebrows as if asking a question. “Yeah, yeah. It’s a week or so. Now come on, drink this soup quick. Come on.” Gramma was eighty-seven and it was a week she was dead.
77