My Grandmother, The Supermodel

She sits in a chair, not a rocking chair - “I’ll die before I rock!” she jokes. She’s tiny, as thin as she was in her prime, wiry. Her face " amazing cheekbones " has the scars of makeup allergies, and wrinkles. She looks old, but as if she doesn’t know she’s old; as if she merely hasn’t noticed the years that have slowly crept up on her and left memories on her skin.

She has " reluctantly " conformed to “Granny” clothes, pastel colours, cardigans, long skirts, and she wears them with a slightly indignant air. Look, her posture says, If you must know (and you really must) I have Chanel and Prada in my wardrobe. This is a one-off. This doesn’t mean anything.

Her eyes are bright and intelligent, the shrewd gaze of a businesswoman. In her day, fashion was a business, the model was expected to be more than a body.

She sketches with a tight, slightly arthritic hand. She always (and probably still does) dreamt of being a fashion designer. It’s bittersweet how her designs haven’t aged with her - the heels still high, the hemline still short or with flowing trains, bright, bold colours. In her faded, clawed hand, these designs are a gentle reminder of the girl she has left behind in body but not spirit.

As I approach, she waves a sheet at me. “My Autumn/Winter collection!” she says merrily, but there’s an edge to it. It’s April now. I know, and she knows, that she may not see Autumn.

But I smile and inspect the designs. They’re shoes, in brilliant jewel colours, reds and oranges mainly, with eye-watering heels.

“What do you think?” There’s a glint in her eye. I must be careful.

I smile. “Eloise,” (never ‘Grandmother’) “They’re beautiful. I wouldn’t wear them myself, but-“

She tuts. “Stephanie, my darling, you’re so uncertain about clothes I’m surprised you wear any at all.”

I pretend to pout. This is a game between us. “I’m not uncertain, I’m refined.”

She laughs and carries on drawing. I sit on the porch at her feet.

I don’t know how long I sat there, just watching the world go by and her sketching, but I glance up at her again and she is asleep. She looks younger in sleep, all her years taking pity on her in her helplessness and slinking away, leaving a woman I am less familiar with.

I leave her, in the chair on the porch, hating how ordinary, how everyday she looks.

When I am at the garden gate I turn back to her and she’s awake, sat up straight and drawing like nothing happened.

I smile at her and she gives me a regal nod and a youthful, mischievous grin. There she is. My grandmother, the supermodel. 

Author's Note

So... what do you think?