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The time came for a little girl to start school. She told her mother she was too little. Her mother said she was a big girl and must start behaving like big girls do. The little girl went to her grandmother to tell her that she was too little to go to school. Her grandmother put on her special set of spectacles. These let her see things as they really are.
"It's true," she said. "You are a little girl. A very, very little girl who has to go to school with big children. What can we do about that?" Grandmother had recognised her littleness.
"What can we do about it," asked the little girl.
"That depends, my child," said Grandma. "Now what was your name again?" It was a family joke that Grandma must think she had thousands of grandchildren as she could never recall their names.
"Well," said the grandmother, "we had better see if we can find something in the Wardrobe."
The girl stared in surprise. The Wardrobe was always kept locked. Rather than be curious it was easier to believe that she kept nothing but rubbish in there. The grandmother unlocked then opened the doors. The little girl was amazed. How could such a small built-in wardrobe be so large? There were racks and racks of clothing reaching as far as the eye could see. There were dresses, gowns, suits, cloaks, skirts, blouses, shorts, trousers in cottons, woollens, silks, gauzes, leathers, furs, plastics and metals.
"There must something here to suit." said the Grandmother as they travelled between the rows and rows of clothes hanging there. The child gazed at all the shapes and colours. With a twinge of disappointment she saw her grandmother select a plain, brown homespun tunic. "Yes," said the grandmother. "It served him well. He wore it into battle with people larger than himself."
"Did he win?" asked the child.
"Oh, yes," said the grandmother. "When you wear this, I shall think of David. He was wearing this when he slew Goliath." The child knew that if she were to ask about Goliath she would be here for hours as her grandmother went from one story into another. For the moment she wanted to test the truth. Would wearing this tunic turn her into a very little person into a person as big as any other of her new class mates?
So all she asked was, "Can I try it on?" Before waiting for an answer, she slipped the tunic over her head. It covered her from head to toe. "Every one will see it," she said. "Haven't you something I can hide under my clothes? Something that no-one else can see?"
"Come with me," said the grandmother. Together they walked out of the Wardrobe and toward grandmother's room. As they stepped into the room the tunic disappeared from sight. "It's gone," cried the child.
"No," said the grandmother. "Out here it is invisible. It can only be seen inside the Wardrobe. You don't believe me? Step inside again." The child crossed the doorway of the Wardrobe and, sure enough, the brown tunic could be seen.
And so she went to school. She was the smallest of the children by far. None dared pick on her or be rude because of her lack of height. She stood up to larger children, daring them to take her on. It was as if David's strength and courage were with her in her early battles.
Until that day.
Her brother was very good at making things. She had asked him to make something for her. She took this thing to the grandmother to show what a good job her brother had done. The grandmother looked at it. A sling. A ging. A shanghai.
"Well," said the grandmother. "You are certainly growing up. I think it is time to find something different for you to wear, don't you? Something even better?"
The grandmother sat down among the shoes. One by one she picked them up, looked at them and put them down. As she did so the tears began to stream quietly down her cheeks. The child snuggled onto her grandmother's lap and asked her to share her trouble. The grandmother told her. She had determined she was going to produce and raise the most perfectly healthy child the world has ever known. She ate foods good for an unborn child and refused foods that would bring harm. She thought good thoughts. She did good deeds. She did everything it was humanly possible to produce a healthy baby. And she did. He was so healthy he never had a day's sickness in his life.
While all gave him credit for his life, none yet had given her the credit due to her. She did not want to die until her efforts were recognised. She came into life again and again. Each time carrying in her wardrobe the clothes she had worn before.
"So that is what you see here, my child, all the people I have ever been."
"Gran, which of these are the best?" asked the child.
"Best? There is 'best' as in most important; there is 'best' as most valuable; there is 'best' as most useful. What sort of 'best' do you mean?"
"The one you can least do without," replied the child.
"Ah, that one! See that empty clothes hanger?" The grand-mother explained its importance. They came out of the wardrobe with an understanding.
The grandmother continued to confuse names, people and places. It was as if there was so much to remember and so little space to store the memories. The older memories were neatly filed and could be found. But the newer ones? Forgetfulness and confusion. To cut a sad story short, she was put in a Home, she died and was buried.
Her Will stated her wish that her grand-daughter make all the funeral arrangements. There are few who know that she was buried without any clothes at all. There are fewer who understand why she was buried with an empty wire coat-hanger.
It is symbolic, of course.
Should that trumpet sound again for her, she can truly declare her wish to stay dead and buried, using as an excuse that she has nothing to wear.
Now, every time the grand-child feels tired and aged, she thinks "I feel as old as Methuselah's mother." Every time she looks into a mirror, searching for wrinkles, she thinks "If I don't watch out I will look as old as Methuselah's mother."
By giving Methuselah's mother the recognition she deserves, her grandmother sleeps undisturbed.
Any help you can give will be welcome.
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Coffee at the Golden Key
Short Stories : A Small Collection Page 3