The rumble of the car’s wheels on a fast road. The muted voice of Gerry Rafferty emanating from the speakers in the front, though at that age I wouldn’t have known it was Gerry Rafferty, wouldn’t have known the solo like aural honey was played on a saxophone. In fact at that point, laid on the back seat with my head on Nana’s sturdy thigh, I was probably no bigger than an alto sax myself.
Unable to sleep despite the lateness of the drive home, I watched Nana watching me, her face distorted by moving stripes of orange and shadow as we passed under street light after street light. Even in the shadow I could see that slight smile that other people often missed among the deep lines and stern brow.
I reached up, maybe I was trying to pat the powder-dusted face high above me, but my fingers tangled in a droopy bow on the front of her dress, pulled it loose as I extricated myself. I got a whiff of Youth Dew, the familiar prickle in my nose as she moved to re-tie her bow. There was a patch of cold on my hip where one hand must have been resting, holding me safely in place before rear seatbelts.
A pause, a stretch, and I yanked on the bow again, undoing it deliberately this time. Raised eyebrows from Nana as she slowly re-tied it, watching me watching her. She undid it herself this time, tied it even slower, an exaggerated loop of her hand, eternity ring catching a passing stripe of orange light.
The rest of the way home she watched me, guiding my hands occasionally as I tied and re-tied the bow in brown and orange fabric as rough as the skin on her fingers. By the time we pulled up outside the house, I had all the skills I’d need sixteen years later when I tied the card to her funeral flowers.
…
Biography
JY Saville writes stories of various lengths and genres in northern England, including some at The Fiction Pool, Firefly magazine, and forthcoming in Confingo. Find her on Twitter @JYSaville or at thousandmonkeys.
Image: Renden Yoder
