for so long that sometimes having her felt less like receiving something and more like being handed something breakable.
Grandma had noticed.
Of course she had.
The letter continued.
“And one more thing.
“Stop looking frightened every time that child climbs something.”
“You climbed everything.”
“Your mother was worse.”
Mom said, “That is a lie.”
Grandma immediately said, “You climbed onto a garage roof at eight.”
“I was retrieving a ball.”
“You used the drainpipe.”
“I was resourceful.”
Even I laughed.
Then I reached the final paragraph.
“If I am there when this is opened, somebody give me the baby.
“If I am not, tell her I waited a very long time to meet her.”
“And tell her I was glad she came.”
I couldn’t finish the signature.
I folded the letter against my chest.
Then I crawled across the grass and put my arms around my grandmother.
Carefully.
She
