10 months ago
Once when I was about seven we were at the Berg’s house and I watched my first horror movie. The movie was about a pianist, a hand, and a pair of scissors. Or at least that’s what I remember, the terrifying part. The hand crawled across the piano, grasped the scissors, and stabbed the pianist. Why or how or if didn’t matter. It just was, and with help from my brother that hand with its gleaming scissors would become the single most terrifying thought of my childhood. A mere whisper of “the hand” would send me into a spiral of hysteria. I remember sitting with my mother in the bathroom while she whispered, “it’s okay; it’s not real; it’s just a movie; that could never happen” ad nauseum until I fell asleep exhausted in her arms and she would carry me to bed. But my seven-year-old heart knew that hand would come after me some night holding those big scissors to stab me again and again.
I was going through and clearing out a bunch of crap from my office area the other day and came across a birthday card my grandmother sent to my son Demetri a dozen or so years ago. She was in her early nineties then. He was seven.
Here’s a picture of the front of the card:
She had, no doubt, walked down to the pharmacy at Bradley Meadows to buy it. She might have grabbed a bottle of wine from the liquor store while she was out. She always remembered our birthdays.
Here’s the inside of the card:
In case you can’t read her I’m-Old-and-English-is My-Second-Language-Anyway handwriting, she wrote,
Gd Mère wish you very happy day for your Birthday —
Good kisses —