The Gift

My grandfather calls for my grandmother who comes briskly from the back living quarters, and when she realizes what is happening, she stops cold.

I can’t believe you are doing this, she says.

Just hold the gun steady for a minute, he says.

My grandmother, a woman who spreads her joy easily by flapping her apron strings in the wind, who has been everything my grandfather needed her to be at each moment in his life, is at a loss.

I don’t even know what to do, she cries.

Come closer, so you can take the gun, he says.

She moves in, but I can feel how nervous she is.

Stay calm, he says.

She tries to hold the gun, but now her hands are shaking more than his.

Hold it steady, he says.

I am trying to, she says, but she is too upset to hold still.

You are making it worse, he says.

I don’t know how to help you, she says.

You don’t need to do anything, just hold on, he says.

They argue like this, while I feel their emotions, the gun and the vibration all concentrating on my ear.

It’s okay, I say, don’t worry, it really doesn’t hurt.

This silences them. We wait together for my grandfather’s tremors to ease away. When his hand slackens, he releases the gun from my ear. Quickly, he stakes out a higher spot, where the flesh gives away smoothly.  

Afterwards, I sit still on the stool, as my grandfather dabs my ear lobes with alcohol and applies an ointment that makes my lobes tingle. My grandmother brings me a cup of tea.

Drink this, it will relax you, she says.

I think she needs the tea more than I do, but I sip it anyway, moving my head as little as possible. My grandfather cleans the piercing instruments, his hands trembling on and off.

Why did you insist on doing it when your hands and fingers are no longer your own, my grandmother asks.