I had never loved my grandmother—you could even say I hated her. All she did was yell at me to do chores as I daydreamed about running down the shores of the River Thames barefoot, watching boats leave London.
My grandmother was a short, stocky woman, loud and fiercely traditional. Though it was 1920, she still insisted on shoving me into a corset every morning, pulling the strings until I could feel my ribs break. Whenever I’d ask to go to the docks, Grandmother would tell me “It is absolutely not ladylike to be running around like a boy.”
***
I was wiping down my kitchen counter when I felt a sharp, stinging pain on the back of my head.
“What in the—” I was cut off by another round of pain. I turned around and was met face-to-face with a little bird. A magpie.
“Hey there bud,” I reached my hand out to him, “Who are you?” Then something in his beak caught my eye. “What’s in your mouth?” I tried taking it out, but I scared him and he flew out the window, dropping what looked like a locket onto the windowsill. I rushed over to it, scooping it up. Inside the locket was a water-stained photo of a woman, man, and baby. They looked too old to be the baby’s parents, but they looked so proud I assumed they were anyway. The woman was short; her thick hair was gathered into a bun sitting lopsided on the top of her head. The man was tall and thin, his hair combed over to the side. Then it hit me like a brick to the back of the head.
They were my grandparents.
***
For the next few days like clockwork, the magpie showed up at noon. I had started calling him Maggie, and every day he would bring me something new. Yesterday, it was a paper rolled up and shoved into a little bottle.
“To my dear Elizabeth,” was written at the top of the page. Maggie nudged my ankle and seemed to gesture towards my grandmother’s room.
***
“Grandmother?” I knocked softly on her bedroom door.
“Yes, girl?” she called out, her voice strained. I let myself into her room and sat down gently at the foot of her bed. Maggie waddled after me like a little kid.
“Look what I found.” I handed her the letter and watched as she teared up.
“Hah,” she let out a soft chuckle and sniffled. I had never seen her this vulnerable. “He wrote this after I yelled at him for blowing all his money on alcohol the day he got paid.” My grandfather had gone with my parents on a trip across the country when their boat sank, leaving me with my grandmother. When I forked over the rest of the things, she reached over and gave me the first hug I think she’s ever given me.
Maybe, I don’t actually hate my grandmother.
Thank you, Maggie.
Written by Elina Zhang from Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada
