At first it was tiny: forgetfulness and tiredness in the middle of a task.
Whenever I asked him if he was okay, he rolled his eyes.
“I’m old, Kate, that’s all. Stop getting dramatic,” he said.
But I knew her and she knew she was not well. Little by little, he stopped singing in the kitchen and sitting on the porch became “too much effort”.
I was folding my clothes when I got the call I was so afraid of.
“I’m so sorry, Kate,” Dr. said softly. Smith. “He’s gone.”
I had made a chocolate cake for his birthday last month.
Noah came running when he heard me cry. He hugged me while trying to accept that Grandma was really gone.
We buried her on a windy Saturday.
All the friends and family we had came to the funeral, but when they came home, I was left alone.
My mother was an only child, and Evelyn’s brothers were gone. The rest were distant cousins.
“Do what you think is convenient with their things,” they all said.
So, a week after the funeral, Noah and I went to Grandma’s. The house seemed frozen in time: the open curtains, the windbells tingling gently.
Everything was exactly where she had left off. His slippers were next to the couch, and his faint, sweet scent floated in the air.
