祖母の免許

The call from my father came on Sunday morning. My grandmother's driving was dangerous, he said, so the family ought to talk over the matter of her licence. My grandmother is eighty-two and lives alone near the mountains. We argued for twenty minutes about who would say it, and in the end it was decided that I would go and visit her.

Four hours by train and bus. There are only three buses a day. I had thought it was because of this inconvenience that my grandmother could not let go of her car. Looking at the fields outside the window, I remembered how I used to come down this road every summer holiday as a child. I had also prepared three lines of persuasion in my head.

When I arrived at the house, my grandmother was preparing tea in the kitchen. Before I could start the conversation, she spoke first. "It's about the licence, isn't it. It's already arranged — I'm going to hand it in next week." I ended up leaving every prepared line unused.

When I asked why, my grandmother told me quietly. Last month, when an elementary school child ran out into the road, it felt to her as though her foot took a second longer to reach the brake. "Your judgment slows down before your body does. There are times when the person you can trust least about yourself is yourself." It was a story nobody in the family knew.

I had thought my grandmother had given up. But she had not given up — she had judged for herself. Seeing her standing there, not having handed the responsibility to her family, I could not help bowing my head. I had come intending to persuade her, and it was I who had been convinced.

Before I left, the two of us decided what to do about shopping days. Instead of the car, once a week I will call her to fit the bus times. My father will come by car once a month. Rather than supporting my grandmother, from now on it simply means the family has one more job. She walked me to the bus stop, and to the very end she did not look toward the driver's seat.