Thank you, Grandma, I said. And again, please? Grandma cleared her throat and read the letter again. I made notes in my new notebook. When Grandma finished she sat down and looked at me. Well? she said. I asked her to wait a minute while I finished writing my notes. Okay, I said. Thank you. This is an excellent start! I’m curious about a few things, though.
Grandma’s body language told me that she was pretending to be worried about what I might say.
First of all, I said, is Gord really the size of a kumquat? And also, what is a kumquat? Also, you don’t want to use dirty-sounding words a lot, do you? Because remember, Grandma, this is a letter to a baby. Should you be talking about dirty words? Should you be expressing approval for dirty words in a letter to a baby?
Ah, said Grandma. Hmmm. I’ll have a look at that.
Thank you, I said. Also, perhaps you could clarify exactly why the word kumquat is dirty. And, of course, as I mentioned, what it is exactly. Remember your readers, okay, Grandma? In this case, a baby.
Ah, yes, point taken! Will do, thank you, said Grandma.
Oh, and also, re the ten weeks inside, I said. Yes? said Grandma. Is it true that the head is half the size of the body? Well, said Grandma, first of all Gord is now much further along than ten weeks so as time passes the body will grow faster than the head and things will become more proportioned. Whew, I said. Because who wants to give birth to a monster. I imagined Mom yelling, What the fuck is this? Are you fucking kidding me? right after they showed Gord to her in the hospital.
Secondly, I said. I looked closely at my notes. I smiled so Grandma wouldn’t worry. I appreciate this comparison of house arrest and confinement to Gord being in the womb, but may I ask you a question, Grandma? Of course, of course, said Grandma. Are you under house arrest? I asked. No, no, of course not, said Grandma. Because this is a letter, I said. Usually letters are true. Ah, said Grandma. Yes. You make a good point. They usually are. I think it’s okay to exaggerate a bit, I told Grandma, especially if there’s some truth to what you’re saying. Well, said Grandma, in a way I think I was comparing being under house arrest to the process of aging.
I stopped and looked hard at Grandma. She looked hard at me. I blinked a few times. Fair enough, I said. That’s justified. Grandma seemed really happy about that. But again, I said, always remember your reader. You don’t want to replace clarity with clever comparisons. Yes, said Grandma. She nodded. You are right. Thank you. Because, I said, further on you mention that you and the reader of the letter will emerge from your confinement at the same time. Mid-July. Yes, said Grandma. That’s right. But if your confinement is, as you explained, the process of aging, which you compare to being under house arrest, and it is also coming to an end in mid-July, then what exactly are you saying? That Gord will be born in mid-July and that you will stop aging in mid-July? Which means what exactly?
Grandma smiled at me. She put her hand on mine. Ah, she said. I see what you’re getting at. She got up from the table and came around to where I was sitting and put her arms around me. She patted my heart. No, Swiv, she said, I have no plans of dying in mid-July. Or anytime soon!
I hugged Grandma. I couldn’t let go. Finally I had to let go because I knew she needed to sit down and knock some things over and catch her breath. Well, I said, just to wrap things up. I was trying not to cry. How could an editor cry in Editorial Meeting? She passed me the box of Kleenex that was on the dining room table. I blew my nose. I coughed. I like the next sentence of your letter, Grandma. It is very, very long and you use the word shitting in it, but—
Grandma interrupted me. I need to remember my reader, she said. Who is a baby.
Yes, I said. Exactly. And lastly, I said, what does this expression mean, the one you said about the father. Pilgering weiter, said Grandma. Yeah, I said. What does that mean? What does it sound like to you? asked Grandma. I have no idea! I said. It isn’t even a real language! It is a real language, said Grandma. It’s just not very common! It’s not even written down, I said. It’s not real! Things don’t have to be written down to be real, said Grandma. It means wandering around from spot to spot. Taking things as they come. Do you notice that the first part of the word looks a bit like the word pilgrim?
Was Grandma trying to tell me something about you in her letter to Gord? All right, Grandma, I said. Excellent work. Like I said, you’ve made a tremendous start. I organized my papers and stood up from the table.
Is it time for Facts? said Grandma.
I looked at my cellphone. Yes! I said. Do you have one?