My gran is in her new apartment now and even though she tells nearly everyone that she sees how she will be returning to her home shortly- I assume she must know down deep that it is not reality.
I know this because she is giving me things that leave big spaces on walls in her old home.
This dresser or chest has always sat in the room off her kitchen.
I would sit on a stool and open those two doors and play "bankerwritersbizlady" all day long with old checkbooks and tiny journals and stamp pads and money.
I would sit there and recite stories that my grandmother transcribed in little leather notebooks.
I would swing round and tell her all my wishes. All my lies. All my dreams.
It sits here now in my house.
It sits heavy like a stone on the flooring.
It is at the same time beautiful and sad.
A reminder of how fast the calendars have flipped.
Like wind on drugs.