A litany of little things

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My grandma wrote down everything.

In calendars from funeral homes, she’d write whether anyone came to visit (“Phyllis trimmed shrub after dinner”), masses she attended, and names of people who died, with their ages behind their names. All these little things.

Grandma’s notebooks are inside a scrapbook now beside her bed in the nursing home. Sunday, her fingers gripped mine tightly. Her eyes bore into mine and her mouth was pursed tight, so I kept talking.

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We’re in so deep

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She stood stoically by the brick wall, a gaggle of giggly girls to her left. “Look at my new puppy backpack!” one girl shouted over and over to last year’s classmates as they walked by. Alice didn’t move much from the line Ms. W’s class was making outside the second-grade wing before their first day this morning.

She looked at her shiny new shoes, her yellow lunchbox with bicycles on it hanging by her knees. She sniffed. Her three-year-old sister sat at my feet.

 

Around the building stood Dave with Violet, outside the kindergarten wing.

We made it; we landed outside the school building today, sputtering and wiping the water from our brows.

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