I’d asked the stupidest question of my life.
“Obviously.”
“The drive nearly killed you.”
“Everything nearly kills you at 101.”
“Grandma.”
She reached for my hand.
“I wasn’t going to sit at home because it was difficult.”
I swallowed.
“You could have gotten sick.”
“I could get sick in my own chair.”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
At the car, she looked back toward the garden.
Lily was sitting in the grass, smashing birthday cake between both hands.
Grandma smiled.
“There.”
“What?”
“That’s what I wanted.”
“What?”
She pointed weakly.
“One of yours.”
I looked at my daughter.
Then I remembered the photograph.
Me at four.
Grandma’s front step.
The dress she’d made.
“I thought you wanted a picture of her on your step.”
“I do.”
“You just said that’s what you wanted.”
“I can want two things.”
At her age, apparently, she was still negotiating.
We got
