8 October 2005 | Vol. 5, No. 3
My dad would like to ship my grandmother to Oregon, but first
he calls to ask what I think about heart surgery. She'll die
if they do and she'll die if they don't and there are buckets of hyacinths
on my rooftop, and bathtubs of irises; I don't want to talk about this,
I would rather send flowers.
My grandmother gardened when she could stand, hostas crowded the paths
around the house, squirrels lived in the eaves and there were old heeled shoes
trapped beneath the floorboards of the attic. I was small in that house,
I hid from her in an orange steamer trunk, but when someone is dying
you are supposed to forgive them.