Her eyesight is failing, and her moments of silence stretch longer, interrupted only by the creak of the floorboards or the sound of the garlic smoke curling through the air.
“You should call the electrician,” I suggest, trying to catch her eye.
She doesn’t respond, her focus unwavering as she watches the smoke dance.
The power imbalance is subtle but ever-present.
Her authority is wrapped in traditions and the expectant glances that say more than words ever could.
Meanwhile, I shoulder the duties she no longer can, a silent agreement between us.
This ritual has been a nightly occurrence for months now. At first, it was just a curiosity, but now it’s become a demand.
Her increasing silence and refusal to engage with the world outside these walls only adds to the tension.
“Grandma, have you taken your medicine today?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
She nods, but her eyes betray her.
Every week, she’s grown quieter, her world shrinking.
Messages go unanswered, neighbors are avoided.
There’s a strange discoloration on the floor, but when I pointed it out yesterday, she turned away.
The smoke filled the room then, just as it does now, an unspoken barrier between us.
I’m supposed to meet with the social worker soon, to discuss her care plan.
It’s a meeting I’ve been postponing, unsure how cooperative she’ll be or what I’m willing to admit about her condition and my own limitations.
The garlic ritual sits between us, a quiet boundary I’m hesitant to cross.
As the smoke weaves through the house, I wait for something to change, uncertain if it will be her or me who finally bends.
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