Grandma

I’m in your kitchen with a scar across my abdomen from where Bella leapt up in glee to greet me before dragging her body down. You peek under the cabinets to carry conversation while fixing the homemade tomato soup you felt was too bland so you added in a fresh can of Campbell’s. Between slurps, Grandpa says his back’s aching and then tells a joke to reveal a flash of the large white teeth he only puts in to chew.

We step through the screen door out into the late-summer air and pause to appreciate Grandpa’s handiwork: a void in the garden beds. You tell me a big shrub ate it last winter. You say you’re going to plant lavender in its place, or maybe I filled that part in myself, like a poem.

We walk up to Dakota’s giant SUV I’m borrowing with its witchy bumper stickers and the same cigarette smoke embedded into her upholstery as yours. I wonder if it’s the same brand. Do they still make Du Maurier King-Sized, Lights?

I give you a big hug and step into the van, but before I drive off you share with me three bouts of driving wisdom you learnt from Great Grandpa Elliott: One, when stuck in a line of traffic on the highway, always keep your distance. Two, never back up any further than you have to. The third I don’t remember, though I wish I could.