Accepted

“The Puppets”
The olive-green color jumps out every time, just before I hit Navarro Place, the street where my grandparents live in Denver, Colorado. It’s hard to miss: weathered shingles, the aged tree and crumbling steps lead to a splintered door. I ring the doorbell and knock loud three times. Immediately, I hear an interrogating, “Who’s there?” from the other side. The suspicious voice on the other end is, without fail, my grandpa Dale. I tirelessly announce, “It’s your favorite granddaughter, Laura!”
Every visit to grandma and grandpa’s house requires this specific ritual, everyone in the family just knows. He opens the door quickly; I run in and slip into his open arms. I never know how many baseball caps I will see on top of his head. One summer years ago, he put on a second cap, not noticing he was wearing one already. The jeans he wears are soft and blue as the sky, so faded and washed a million times through the years. A beaten leather belt, with notches he punched in the leather himself, keep his pants high. He hugs me tightly, and my glasses crook out of shape and fog up a little. I twitch slightly when his scruffy beard scratches against my cheek. Despite my numerous visits before, within moments of entering I still tell myself, “It’s different here.”
I remove my shoes. The thick shag carpet is a surprise between my toes. I enter the formal dining room, running my fingers atop the hi-fi stereo, making a trail through the dust. Spanning the length of the wall the stereo sits silent: motionless, empty, blank. But it has a presence I cannot ignore. The rich mahogany wood has entrancing knots and rings, and stands almost as high as my hips. I linger on a thought of the past life the stereo had: the room filled with the music of Bing Crosby and the bobbity scat of Dizzy Gillespie, my grandmother light on her feet swaying her hips to the beat and grandpa in the kitchen preparing an array of bread and veggies for cheese fondue. Proudly atop the stereo sits my grandpa’s dog tags he wore stationed in Guam.
I move into the formal living room and the furniture is a blast from past. The monochromatic palette is hard to digest: forest, olive, lime, pale green. Everywhere. A low velvet couch matching the green exterior of the home serves as the main seating. Two regal chairs in a surprising toasted-marshmallow color sit next to the stereo. Opposite the couch sits the lamp that seems to take up as much room as another guest in the home. Too big and always in the way, it somehow is knocked over every time I visit.
The reason for seeing my grandparents today is a first. Stairs are getting harder and harder to climb for my grandma Marilyn, and getting out of bed is nearly impossible. When music plays on the stereo, only the dust in the air seems to move to the beat if observed closely enough. Sometimes grandma must use the wheelchair to get around, something I hate to see. I rejoice for every new sunrise, but my grandma holds on to each sunset, not wanting to be in the dark. She has started cleaning out her home and giving things away. Today, I am here to look through her puppets.
My grandma spent years in Denver Public Schools traveling from student to student with her puppets in tow. As a speech therapist, she encouraged students to use puppets to improve their speech. Numbering over two-hundred puppets, they are laid before me in the living room like a museum exhibit, each puppet a distinct and unique artifact that has been carefully preserved. With so much to look at, my eyes quickly move from color to color, not knowing which to focus on. After scanning the exhibition, I return to two distinct puppets. The Beaming Rose and Raggedy Anne Doll puppets strike me as special, but my favorite is the Beaming Rose. I ask my grandmother to tell me the story of the Beaming Rose puppet.
Many decades ago at the Rose bowl Parade, grandmother noticed a peppy pink rose puppet. She looked at the price tag and was appalled. A thrifty mother, she refused to pay eighteen dollars knowing she could make it herself for half the price. She studied it meticulously. Upon returning to Denver, she stopped at the local fabric store, Cloth World, before unpacking her suitcase. Within two days, the children at Washington Elementary were learning to pronounce their r’s as they manipulated Rosie, the Beaming Rose. Grandma used hot pink felt for the petals and googly eyes to bring Rosie to life. The rose grandma made was similar to the original puppet she admired, but better.
Next to Rosie lay the darling, worn Raggedy Anne doll. On her face are the same freckles that dot the bridge of my nose. Looking at her, I am looking in a mirror. There is a smudge of dirt on her chin. I remember turning over rocks and searching for slugs in the mud of our front yard at our house on Newhall Drive as a kid. The dress on the squishy doll body is not typical of most Raggedy Anne dolls. It is made from remnants of the pink gingham Easter dress my grandma made for me when I was eight. I slip my hand into the trunk of the doll. A folded circle of cardboard gives the mouth a stiff shape, and I am able to open and close my hand to manipulate the mouth.
I realize, my grandmother’s hand has been in this same space before. Within reach of the record turntable, I stretch my arm out and touch it, another place she has been. Cautiously, I place the rose puppet on my other hand. Upon doing so, the bank of wisdom my grandmother treasures surges into my schema of how the world works. Bestowed upon me is the ability to call upon my grandmother’s lengthy, How-to Book for Life wherever I might be. I stand in the room, grandma curiously watching me. She wheels herself to me. I kneel to her eye-level and she takes my hand. Tenderly, she tells me, “Take the puppets home. And please, find a way to use them.” I do just that. Regretfully, not sure how to display the puppets, I pack them in a box and put them high in my closet.
Several months later, I sit on the couch in my living room frustrated with my wailing eight month old nephew, Henry, squirming on my lap. Having tried everything to calm him, I think there isn’t a toy left he hasn’t seen. I sit looking around the room, wishing there was someone to hand him off to. On the wall hangs a wedding portrait of my grandparents. Barely older than me in the picture, I survey my grandmothers youthful eyes, and then I remember.
I tightly wrap my arms around Henry as we dash up the stairs into my bedroom. Cautiously, I set him on the floor and close the door so he can’t escape while I climb on a chair to reach the box. Hurrying, I tear off the lid and tissue paper flies above and under me. There is Rosie, the Beaming Rose. I place her on my hand and relive the sensation felt months ago. I find a high pitched happy voice and immediately begin to play peek-a-boo with Henry and the puppet. Rosie even eats Henry’s nose as his tears subside and a smile begins to show.