One day, my phone rang, and I frowned at the caller ID. Grandma.
She rarely called. At 89, her hearing is not what it used to be. She usually preferred talking face-to-face. More often than not, I was the one who visited her. But between school, work, and Brendan, I hadn’t made the time. I hadn’t even practiced dance as often as I liked, and I always made sure to practice every day.
I barely had time to say hello before her voice blasted through the speaker.
"Tiff, come get this junk! Get this shit out of here!"
I jerked the phone away from my ear. "Grandma, wait—what’s going on?"
"I need you to come get this junk out of my house. Can you come now?"
I hesitated, glancing at the pile of unfinished assignments on my desk.
"Uh, sure. I just need to change. Give me about an hour, okay?”
An hour later, I entered her house. A small Pomeranian dog circled my feet excitedly as it greeted me.
“Hi Faith” I muttered to the dog.
I struggled to keep my footing as Faith darted between my legs, her fluffy tail brushing against my calves. I stumbled, catching myself against the doorframe as she yipped in delight. As I stepped forward, a blur of fur shot past me—one of Grandma’s cats bolting for freedom, another tiptoed hesitantly behind the dog.
Boxes crowded the narrow entryway, stacked so high I had to squeeze past them. Beyond the clutter, Grandma sat in her favorite brocade chair, its worn fabric blending into the dim light. Uncle Matt lounged beside her in the matching chair, arms crossed on top of his round belly. The living room floor is carpeted with open crumpled letters and pieces of clothing discarded carelessly. The room smelled of dog urine masked with lemon zest air freshener.
“Hi grandmom. Hi Uncle Matt. Uhh…What’s going on?”
“Tiff!” Grandma exclaimed. Holding a stack of letters in her lap, she looks at me through her yellow-tinted bi-focals. “Come in”
I looked around the room searching for a seat.
"Hi, Grandmom. Hi, Uncle Matt. Uhh… what’s going on?"
"Tiff!" Grandma’s voice rang out, both relieved and exasperated. She peered at me over her yellow-tinted bifocals, a thick stack of letters resting in her lap. "Come in, come in."
I scanned the room for a place to sit, but every surface was buried under papers, clothing, and half-open boxes. The clutter felt suffocating, as though it had taken on a life of its own—piled, crumpled, and never touched.
I turned to Grandma. She looked thinner, almost swallowed by her oversized shirt. Had she always been this small, or was I only noticing now? The deep lines around her eyes had become more pronounced in the two weeks since I last saw her, as though time itself was pressing down on her fragile form.
She looked up at me, her eyes bright with a mixture of hope and anxiety. “Tiff, I need you to help me clean up in here. I want to clean off the bed in the front bedroom. If I can get that bed clean, you can spend the night and sleep in there.”
This again.
It was the same conversation every time I visited. Since Grandpa died 15 years ago, she’d been asking me to stay—just like we used to when I was little, when I’d spend weekends with her. The problem was, there was no room to sleep. My childhood bed, once a place of comfort, was now hidden beneath mounds of clothes, boxes, and forgotten memories.
I could never bring myself to just clean it up. Every time I tried, Grandma would panic and tell me to stop, to leave it alone. It was as if she was holding on to everything, afraid of what might happen if she let go.
I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. What was there to say?
Instead, I nodded and forced a smile. “Sure, Grandma. Let me see what I can do.”
She brightened slightly, her tired eyes softening. But I saw the flicker of worry cross her face—was it because she knew this wouldn’t go anywhere, or was it just the loneliness that never seemed to leave her?
I spent the next half hour sifting through her closet and drawers, trying to organize the chaos that had taken over the space. Clothes piled high, forgotten items stuffed into corners, and old memories tucked into the fabric of each garment. I struggled to create room on the bed, but it was like trying to carve out space in a world that had gotten too crowded.
Finally, I gathered the abandoned pieces into a hamper and placed it gently at her feet.
“I had an idea,” I said, my voice soft, trying to offer a solution that might feel less overwhelming. “How about you go through these clothes? The ones you don’t want, I can take to the homeless shelter, and the ones you do, I’ll put back in the closet for you. You don’t have to get up, I’ll bring them to you.”
She looked at me, bewildered, as if the simple task of sorting through her clothes had suddenly become an insurmountable challenge. Her brow furrowed, and for a moment, I could see the confusion and frustration in her eyes. She wasn’t just overwhelmed by the clutter in her house, but by the years of memories and of things left unsaid, building up between us.
Her lips parted, but no words came. She just stared at the clothes, her hands resting in her lap, and I could almost hear the quiet ticking of time that passed between us.
“Hold on, Tiff. Now, I don’t want you to throw away any of my good stuff.” Here we go. The familiar panic crept into her voice, the one that always came whenever we talked about cleaning up. It was a pattern, and I could almost see the walls go up around her.
“I know,” I said gently, trying to reassure her. “That’s why I thought it might be a good idea for you to go through everything and tell me what you want to keep. That way, the things you want won’t get thrown out.”
There was a long silence. The kind of silence that filled the room, heavy with years of unresolved tension. It was a strange, fragile silence, like we were both searching for the right thing to say, but neither of us quite knew what that was.
Finally, a deep sigh escaped her lips, and for the first time that day, I saw something shift in her eyes. Maybe it was the exhaustion of always fighting against change. Maybe it was a realization that, for once, she didn’t have to face this alone.
“I’ll go through them,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if the admission alone took a lot of effort.
We spent the next two hours making progress—real progress. I could hardly believe it. The clutter, the chaos, the years of neglect—they all began to shift little by little. She didn’t retreat into her panic, didn’t shut down like she usually did. We were actually accomplishing something. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed in her, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
Was it the sudden awareness of how unsafe her living situation had become? Or maybe it was the weight of the isolation she had carried for so long? Whatever it was, I wasn’t complaining.
But just as I started to think that maybe, just maybe, things were starting to get better…
Our progress was suddenly halted.
Just as I was about to fold another pile of clothes, I heard the familiar sound of Grandma’s breath hitching. Her face had gone pale, and her hands were trembling as she clutched a delicate silk blouse in her lap.
“Wait, Tiff! No! You’re giving away some of my favorite pieces! Not that one!” she cried, her voice rising in panic. She yanked the blouse out of my hands and held it to her chest like it was a precious treasure.
I froze, feeling the tension snap back into the air. She was having another episode, the kind that came whenever she felt like I was taking too much away from her. Her hands shook, and the color drained from her face.
“Grandma, it's okay,” I said, trying to calm her. I could feel my own heart starting to race. “I’m not throwing anything away that you want to keep. We’re just sorting through it together.”
She didn’t hear me. Her mind was already spiraling, caught in the familiar panic. “But it’s my favorite! I’ve had it for years!” she yelled, clutching the blouse even tighter.
“Grandma, if we don’t let go of some things, we won’t be able to get the bed clean. Don’t you want to clean it up?” I asked, my patience starting to wear thin. This felt like the same conversation we’ve had over and over again.
She froze, her hands still clutching the blouse, staring down at it like it held all the answers. I watched her, my frustration bubbling up. I knew she was having a hard time, but this had become a cycle—every time we tried to make progress, she pulled back.
Uncle Matt sat in his chair, not even glancing up from his phone, his indifference making everything worse. Why was I the one always stuck in this? Why was I the one who had to push her to move forward?
“Grandma,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though it cracked a little. “We can’t do this if you keep holding on to everything. Please, just let me help you. Let’s get this bed clean. You always talk about how much you want it done. So, let’s just do it, okay?”
She looked up at me, and for a moment, I thought she was going to break down again. Her eyes were filled with that same mix of confusion and resistance that had been there for years.
Finally, she nodded, but it was slow, reluctant. She sighed heavily and spoke in a tone I couldn’t quite read.
“Okay, but I can’t do any more today. Take these bags to the shelter for me, alright?”
I bit back a harsh reply. I wanted to snap at her, tell her that this wasn’t enough, that we couldn’t keep going in circles like this. But instead, I just took the bags, feeling their weight in my hands.
“I’ll take care of it,” I said, my voice tight.
I didn’t feel like I was helping anymore. I was just cleaning up the mess, and nothing was changing.