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.
She patted my back.
“You’re making a scene.”
“You wrote the letter.”
“Years ago.”
“That’s worse.”
She laughed softly.
Then Lily reached for the box.
Naturally.
Her first target was a blue glass button.
“No,” three generations of women said at once.
Everybody laughed again.
We did cake 20 minutes later.
Grandma refused a full slice.
Then ate half of mine.
She stayed for less than two hours.
