2005 CHILDREN'S DIVISION WINNER HOLIDAY FICTION CONTEST

It was one of those damp and hot October afternoons after school. I could smell the waiawi (strawberry guava) across the stream, a squishy carpet of soft smashed marbles on the rocks. It smelled thick, like when you're making waiawi jam and you've tasted too much sugary syrup but you've got to keep stirring with the big wooden spoon or it will burn on the bottom of the pan. I know all about this smell. I'd helped her make jam since I was 9.

I was sitting in the hammock on the front porch watching her rock. The cinders that had fallen out of the old half-dead orchid plant in the corner were crunching under the rockers. She didn't notice it at all. It felt like when you accidentally run your fingernails on the chalkboard. Ms. Tong, the new student teacher in my home-ec class, did that at least once a week.

"Come on Grams, let's go for a walk," and I jumped out of the hammock. Grandma looked up and smiled. She doesn't smile much anymore, but when I reached out my hand, she took it and stood up. We walked down to the mailbox and back up to the porch. She wanted to do it again, so we did. I let go of her hand and ran over to grab a yellow ginger blossom and handed it to her. She stopped walking, took the flower and held it. I had to bring her hand up to her nose so she could smell it. She sniffed, then looked away. I think she was remembering her yard full of ginger, but who knows? She doesn't talk anymore.

I try to imagine what she might be thinking. It makes me feel happier and it's not as scary as thinking that her brain is slowly dying," drying up" is what my Mom said, like the puddle on the side of the road. I want to water it and make it full again.

Later, when Mom came home from work, I asked her what I could get Grams for her birthday. Her birthday is on Christmas Eve, so it is easy to remember and I could get her one big present, 'cause it's so close.

"Hmm. I don't know. You don't have much money. She probably wouldn't understand anything anyway," Mom sighed.

I hate it when she talks like that. All the words are sighs — each one a plumeria with brown edges, the ones on the ground that aren't dead yet, the kind you can't use to make a lei.

"But I really want to do something. Can't you think of anything, Mom?" I was nagging.

"Help me wash this rice, OK? You're learning how to sew in school, right? Well, there's a bag of fabric scraps in the hall closet. You can make her a pillow. Hey, wash that rice good, eh? And please stir the stew while I get out of these work clothes."

After dinner, I took down the bag of scraps. It smelled musty and I started to sneeze. All sorts of scraps, long blue- and-white palaka strips, pink polka dots from that old dress of hers, my May Day mu'umu'u fabric from third grade, large squares of green surfboards and honu, scraps from the 'ulu quilt Grams made when I was a baby, some reddish-brown like the dirt, others purple-blue like the water near Coconut Island right before it gets dark, one as yellow as the hibiscus out by the banana trees.

I knew what I'd do. I'd make a quilt for Grams. I took the scraps that I wanted and washed them in the laundry sink with some detergent and bleach to get that smell out. My hands got all slimy feeling from the suds. Scraps hung like a rainbow of flapping tails on the clothesline to dry.

I really didn't know anything about making a quilt, but after school I asked Ms. Tong if she could show me. She suggested I bring all the scraps and we could work on it together at lunch. I felt silly with my backpack stuffed and my stupid friends saying stuff like, "Ho! Malia, you one camel." But in my mind, I kept seeing Grams rocking on the front porch, her eyes filmy and far away, and I tried to not think about her brain drying up.

Ms. Tong and I worked on the quilt for two lunch periods a week. She helped me cut out the squares with a cutter that looks like the one Kimo uses at his job at the Pizza Place. My squares were six inches, eight rows with nine squares in each row. At first I tried to match colors and to make it like those in the catalog that Ms. Tong showed me but there weren't enough of each kind, so it looked kalakoa style. I got good at using the Singer sewing machine in the classroom.

Ms. Tong said that it could be finished by Christmas break if I kept at it. I couldn't tell her about Grams because I'd get this lump in my throat and feel like crying. I did tell her that Grams had taken care of me until I started kindergarten. I told her of Grams' specialty, haupia brownies. I told her that she could make really good French braids.

"You and she must share a special relationship," said Ms. Tong. "I'm sure that she and you talk a lot." The lump in my throat felt so humongous I thought I'd choke. I just couldn't tell her of all the words I'd heard — dementia, Alzheimer's, senile. Dad and Mom talked about the day when she wouldn't be able to live at home, that the daycare center wouldn't be enough. "It's just a matter of time," Dad sighed." We should talk to the social worker again." Even with my ears closed I could hear those words.

By Thanksgiving I'd had all the squares sewn into rows and was ready to join them up. It wasn't perfect, but Ms. Tong said it didn't matter. "Sewing is something you can cheat on a little bit and it will still work." I believed her.

At first Mom didn't believe me when I told her about the quilt. I had to tell her because I needed money to buy the batting and I wanted some lavender cotton for the backing. Ms. Tong called her one night. Mom hugged me but warned me not to get my hopes up because Grams might not understand and might not appreciate all my hard work. "I just don't want you to be disappointed, Malia. You know Grams doesn't talk anymore. Just don't get disappointed. That's all I can say."

I hated it when Mom talked like that, but I didn't say anything. Sometimes feelings don't fit well into words.

It was tough to put it all together. If Ms. Tong hadn't helped me, I couldn't have done it. Sewing the black binding around the edges took a long time and the last edge got done three days before Christmas. Sometimes I'd be sitting in my room on the bed sewing the binding and Grams would walk in. She would walk over to the window, look out, turn around and walk out. Sometimes she didn't see me. I was getting worried that Mom was right. A few times I'd hold her hand and walk all around the house with her. I'd sing Christmas songs and swing her arm along with me. If I stopped, her arm would just stay there or fall by her side. I had a feeling she was slipping away. I had to sew fast to get the quilt done.

Even though I folded it up really tight, and Dad sat on it to squish it down, it still took almost a whole roll of Christmas paper to wrap the quilt. It was the largest present under the tree.

So, what can I tell you about Christmas Day? I want to say that when I gave the present to her, her eyes lit up, she tore the wrapping off, held up the quilt and exclaimed, "Oh Malia, this is beautiful!" But that is a wish that only happens in my dreams.

What did happen is that I placed the wrapped quilt on her lap. I lifted her hands and with my hands over hers, opened the package. She looked down at the folded quilt. I held it up in front of her face, still hand over hand.

As the wrapping fell to the floor, I lay the quilt, all 72 squares of colored memories, on her lap. She looked down and began to touch the squares. She smiled, and when she came to the squares of my May Day mu'umu'u from third grade, she stopped. She lifted one of her hands to my face and while scrunching the squares with her other hand, said, in a hoarse whisper, "my baby, my baby."