I think of my Grandma today. The little television set in her kitchen. Her closet. A treasure chest of costume jewelry and coloring books.
I picture myself curled up on the couch cushions beneath a portrait she made, from thread, of a girl reading. How it came to our house when it no longer belonged in hers.
I remember, just after she was gone, someone wondered out loud, if we had been close. And I didn’t know how to answer that. I didn’t know if I had ever been close to anyone. What it meant to be near anything at all. So I stumbled over words. Well. No. Yes. But…still.
She kept plants at the window, always. Some bright and in bloom. Others with leaves yellow, withered. I asked why she kept those at all.
They’ll grow back, she said, standing over a pot of coffee.
And they did.