Irreplaceable
A Portrait of My Grandmother
When my grandmother used to babysit me, she would always make a bowl of sugarcoated strawberries. The already sweet fruit turned into a delectable candy treat. I’d devour one spoonful after the other as I watched cartoons. My family didn’t have cable at the time, that wouldn’t come until middle school, and so it was a treat to see anything animated outside of a Saturday morning.
My grandfather would sometimes come in and tussle my hair or offer a vice grip handshake. Before commenting on what I was watching. He’d then groan about having to mow the lawn and leave the room.
Whenever a commercial popped up, which was often, I’d walk from the living room to the dining room. In the dining room, so long as it wasn’t Christmas morning, my grandmother would have her art supplies strung about the table. She was a watercolor artist.
“What’s this one going to be?” I asked my grandmother in a prepubescent voice.
There was a faint sketch with pencil I couldn’t quite make out. She was just getting started on the colors.
“It’s a barn,” she replied. “It’s by a forest and beside a pond. Perhaps the farmer built it here for the view. He must live close by.”
“What’s the farmer’s name?”
