the new picture on my phone for a long time.
Then she handed it back.
“Print it.”
“I will.”
“People don’t print things anymore.”
“I print things.”
“You have 8,000 pictures on that phone.”
“How do you know?”
“You told me.”
Fair.
I printed it that afternoon.
Large.
Put it in a frame.
The next time I visited, it was on the little table beside Grandma’s chair.
The photograph of me had been moved slightly to the left.
There was just enough room for both.
Grandma died four months later.
She was 101 and seven months old.
It was quiet.
In her own bed.
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
