Disheveled. A Memory.

In one of several notebooks I keep and among various notes and papers, I found this recollection I had written decades ago. It was part of a writing exercise I was instructed to do by a fellow writer. Here it is, unchanged as I found it. 

                                                                     C.J. Ellis

It was a cold January day that I remember seeing my grandmother for the last time. Out riding my bike I had intercepted Walter, the paper boy and grabbed my grandmother's newspaper for her. Making my way up the cement stairs to her apartment, I recognized the scent of oil paints in the hallway leading to the other three apartments. Sophie, the elderly woman just above my grandmother, was an artist.
Looking out her window, Grandma must have seen me coming because she was in the doorway waiting for me. She was sobbing and smelled of liquor.
At the age of 10 I wasn't aware that my grandmother was an alcoholic, I just remember she often smelled of beer and perfume.....and cried a lot. When she would come to visit, my mother turned into another person. Cold, distant. Annoyed.
At different times, grandmother would disappear for weeks and I can recall the distinct sarcastic tone in my mother's voice when she said "Oh, she's probably in detox again". While I was hurt by the way my family treated my grandmother, it wasn't until my late teens that I truly realized the havoc her drinking caused.

I nervously made my way into her apartment and though parts of that visit are vague in my memory--I remember clearly the neat and orderly fashion in which she had laid out her jewelry and some cash on the coffee table. I also remember clearly how the appearance of my grandmother scared me like never before.
Her flame red hair was disheveled, her make-up a mess from crying and her dentures were not in her mouth.
Collapsing on her reading chair, she sobbed uncontrollably as I asked her tenderly what was wrong.
She grabbed my hands tightly and the clamminess of her palms caused my fingers to slip from her grasp.
She was begging me between noisy sobs to take all that was on the coffee table. By now, she had become almost incoherent and I, confused and afraid started for the front door. With my back against the door, I reached behind me, turned the knob and ran out as quickly as I could. I could still hear her cries as I descended the cement stairs as fast as my feet would take me.
Whether I told my mother of this incident, I do not remember. Weeks had passed and no one had seen or heard from my grandma. The paper boy, Walter, notified my mother that papers at her door were not being collected. It wasn't until a day later that the other tenants began to complain of the horrible stench.
My grandmother, Jeanne Leclair, at the young age of 49--was dead. Suicide, accidental overdose or natural causes--I never really knew.
I was the last to see her, and her, me.
A singular thought that comforts and haunts me.