Dead Grandma with Fringe in Studio Flat

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‘Come with me, will you! I’m afraid to be there on my own!’ my neighbor T tells me one late evening.

 

T’s Grandma had died the day before, alone in her little studio flat – somewhere a five minutes walk from where T and I lived.

 

First floor of the block of flats: T pulls out the key, twists it in the lock and opens the door: a small, square hallway, which leads into the main room.

 

Dark outside – dark inside: except a distant lamp post casting a frail orangey light uncertainly into the room.

 

T pushes the light switch.

 

Central to the small room, a solid table with Grandma resting on it: not in a coffin but directly onto the table: just like that…

 

I look around and I notice scarves and bits of textile, hanging in some places on the walls.

 

‘What are these for, T?’ I ask.

 

‘I covered the mirrors – her soul might see itself in the mirror and get scared’ says T.

 

My eyes are shifting from the colorful, flowery dress that Grandma is wearing, to the red glass-bead necklace, and on to her perfectly blackened hair, cut jaw-length and with the straightest fringe. Grandma looks like a priestess.

 

‘You know she was a witch?’ T says. ‘She used to tell people’s future with cards and beans… she also charmed people to fall in love or get separated.’

 

T lights up a candle and five minutes pass of candle burning silently. T is ready to go.

 

‘Bye, Grandma! I’ll see you once again tomorrow!’ says T as she switches the light back off.

 

The orangey light from the street again lazes into the room.

 

One last look behind in the doorstep: Grandma remains there – absolutely still – and the orangey light seems this time to concentrate all on her immaculate fringe.