I don’t know how to say goodbye to a space where I can sense bits of me, younger parts, stuck in the cracks of the floor, or smudged along the railing to the playroom. I did a lousy job of keeping my promise to myself to stuff light into my small black box, to retrieve permanently the moments that are mine, or were ours.

Memory does fail and smear; being that where it resides is matter which is akin to jello. In her last days she asked me, as if I were also someone else, if I, myself was home. We were folding into each other and she was seeking answers that were hers, ours and no one’s to know. And, yes, grandma I was home and I went home and you were at home so you could go home.


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