“You told me.”
Fair.
I printed it that afternoon.
Large.
Put it in a frame.
The next time I visited, it was on the little table beside Grandma’s chair.
The photograph of me had been moved slightly to the left.
There was just enough room for both.
Grandma died four months later.
She was 101 and seven months old.
It was quiet.
In her own bed.
My mother was there.
So was my uncle.
I got there 20 minutes too late.
For a long time, that bothered me.
After everything, I wanted one more sentence.
One more ridiculous instruction.
One more chance for her to tell me I was doing something incorrectly.
But eventually, I understood that Grandma had spent years saying goodbye in pieces.
The sewing box.
The letter.
The dress.
The birthday.
The photograph.
“I told you I’d make it.”
She did.
She made it to Lily’s first birthday.
She made it into the photograph.
