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.
She made it into the dress.
She made it into the way my mother now says “Don’t save that” whenever I hesitate to let Lily touch something old.
And she made it into one habit I am trying very hard to break.
Saving things for someday.
The cream dress has already been stained.
Strawberry, I think.
The yellow dress I wore has a tiny tear near the waist because Lily wore it for family photographs this spring and caught it on a branch.
For about five seconds, I was devastated.
Then I heard Grandma:
Clothes are meant to wrinkle.
Children are meant to stain things.
So I repaired it.
