“You climbed everything.”
“Your mother was worse.”
Mom said, “That is a lie.”
Grandma immediately said, “You climbed onto a garage roof at eight.”
“I was retrieving a ball.”
“You used the drainpipe.”
“I was resourceful.”
Even I laughed.
Then I reached the final paragraph.
“If I am there when this is opened, somebody give me the baby.
“If I am not, tell her I waited a very long time to meet her.”
“And tell her I was glad she came.”
I couldn’t finish the signature.
I folded the letter against my chest.
Then I crawled across the grass and put my arms around my grandmother.
Carefully.
She felt frighteningly small.
Bone and cotton and warm skin.
For most of my life, Grandma had been solid.
She carried laundry baskets.
Moved furniture.
Picked me up when I was far too old to be picked up.
Now I was afraid my hug might hurt her.
