Grandmother

Her face was beautiful, her eyes still danced, despite the stroke they still smiled. Her mouth turned down slightly on the right so when she smiled only the left side muscles obeyed the brain's signal.

Her voice cracked with age when she called my name and spoke about her husband, my Grandfather, like he was still here, and she was in her kitchen, not a skilled nursing home. I loved her so. Every week I went to visit her in between Sunday services and played games or read to Gramma and her roommate.

The lines on her face were maps that grew in my childhood and our family history lived in this strong, frail woman. Her hands felt like crepe when I held them, bending to kiss her creased cheek before leaving for the week. Priceless, the hours I spent as an adult alone with this woman, Vera, until she was no longer there.

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