Three Teaspoons Make a Tablespoon

It started in a brightly lit kitchen, with a stand along white porcelain oven, a brand new white Frigidaire, white vinyl tile flooring, white cabinets with a ceramic tile countertop. Even the faint light from a cloudy day lit up that room, but the room always seemed bright, especially when my Grandmother was there.

It's odd the things you remember, some so clearly, it's like it happened just a few hours ago. In fact I can almost hear her voice now, "Then three teaspoons make a tablespoon," she said, pouring water from measuring spoon to measuring spoon.

I would sit on the ceramic tile countertop with my feet dangling into the deep, white porcelain sink as Mom Mom did the "Teaspoons and Tablespoons." I watched in amazement as she would turn on the water to a slight trickle and the light would sparkle off the shiny spoons as she carefully measured and poured. She started with the tiniest, a spoon so small that my little finger filled the entire spoon and she'd whisper, "This is one eighth of a teaspoon, you take two eighths to make a quarter of a teaspoon."

I watched with fascination, as she let the water trickle into the tiny spoon and then it would roll into the slightly larger one. She then repeated the action, filling the quarter teaspoon. She progressed, from spoon to spoon, letting the water sparkle before my eyes until she reached the tablespoon. And every time, just as she finished I'd call out, "Do it again, Mom Mom. Please . . . please!"

She repeated her performance several times for me, until it was time for her to begin cooking, then she would explain that whatever happened in this huge world, "Three teaspoons always make a tablespoon."

"You promise Mom Mom?" I asked.

"I promise," she'd reply in a tone that always seemed to convince me everything would be all right.

Then I would hug her as she whispered, "Promise me you'll never grow up, and we can be together forever."

"I promise Mom Mom, I'll never grow up."

-- -- -- -- --

"Mike . . . Mike are you listening?"

"What? I'm sorry Mom, what were you saying?" My voice echoed strangely over the phone line, as if I were in a tunnel or something.

"They are medicating her intravenously, antibiotics and painkillers. I told them no machines, and not to resuscitate her if she goes. She is so old, and the pain, anytime they move her she just moans."

"Is she eating anything yet?" I asked.

"No, she refuses to eat. I tried to give her soup, but as soon as the spoon touched her lips she flinched. She wouldn't take a bite. They talked about inserting a feeding tube into her, but I don't know. I can't help but think maybe this is a choice."

"What? You mean she is giving up? That's so unlike her."

"But she's so far gone now; she just may want to rest. It's been weeks since she recognized me, I have to wonder what is happening in her mind."

Wondering if she ever remembered those times in the kitchen I asked my mother, "Does she say anything to you anymore, about anything?"

"Only about getting away, as if I were a stranger who could free her, or occasionally she'll mention the nice lady who came last week."

"Meaning you?"

"Yeah, I just kind of wish she knew."

"Maybe somewhere, deep inside, she knows," I said, hoping that deep inside she might remember a teaspoon, a tablespoon or something of that time.

"I don't know, I'll call you if there is any change."

"Look, it's after eleven, why don't you head home and get some rest?"

"Yes, Uncle Bruce is here, he's going to stay with her a while, I'll come back in the morning."

"Okay, good. I love you."

"Love you too, bye."

-- -- -- -- --

No teaspoons, just IVs measured in milliliters. I hung up the phone. No teaspoons, no tablespoons, I closed my eyes and wondered: did she break her promise, or did I? I looked at the countertop. A single teardrop sparkled in the light, just like the measuring spoons so many years ago.

I turned out the lights and went to bed. When the telephone rang early that next morning I knew what would be said. I let my wife answer the phone while I walked to the sink and turned on the water, watching it slowly trickle over the teaspoon I left in the sink.