though the rest of us had disappeared.
“She’s got your ears,” she said.
I laughed.
“That’s not exactly a compliment.”
“They’re good ears.”
“They stick out.”
“So did yours.”
“Exactly.”
Grandma smiled.
Then she touched one finger to Lily’s cheek.
“Worth waiting for.”
That nearly undid me.
Mom came out carrying the cake knife.
“What are we doing?”
Grandma pointed toward the package.
“Sit down.”
Mom frowned.
“Why?”
“Because I’m 101 and you still don’t do as you’re told.”
My uncle laughed.
Mom sat.
I peeled away the tissue paper.
Underneath was a wooden box.
Not new.
Dark walnut, scratched at the corners, with a little brass clasp.
I recognized it immediately.
“Oh my God.”
Mom leaned forward.
“What?”
“Grandma’s sewing box.”
When I was a child, that box lived beside her chair.
Buttons in one compartment.
Needles in another.
Spools of thread arranged by color.
And always, at the
