We always had to summon the doctor, because Hannah’s head was falling off, or Beth had been bitten by a hundred snakes while she napped in her crib. We had three children, Hannah, Beth, and Sarah, and terrible things were always happening to them. She always waved anyway.Īfter school, I played a long-running game of house with Emily, who lived next door.
I always wanted to walk to school, or ride my bike, but the bus picked us up in front of our house, and Mom would watch, cup of tea in hand, as we’d climb onto the bus, and I’d wave from the window until I was old enough to know how uncool that was. We had trees, leaves to rake, a sidewalk to shovel, a driveway to roller skate in. I can see my grandmother shrugging her shoulders, because there was nothing she could do about it. Your heart will break one day and never recover. No one ever bothered to teach me the language my grandmother spoke. She’d done the same thing to my mom, her daughter. She’d point out what would happen to me, tell me what each line meant. She’d take my hand in hers and trace lines on my palm. Like the pages of a library book, my grandmother’s hands, papery and cool.
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