
Her car rolled past my house pushing three miles per hour, partly because she's nearly 90 and partly because she was coming to a stop two doors down. I was making breakfast in the kitchen that was once hers, standing where my grandmother stood years ago, buttering bread and scrambling eggs. My heart caught when I saw her go by, hands at 10 and two, chin nearly touching the steering wheel. It was summer at 9 am, my kids were still wearing yesterday's popsicles stains but my grandmother was dressed to match her purse that matches her shoes. She woke up knowing just what to do and stepped from the curb towards her best friend's front door with arms already outstretched. My neighbor's Continue Reading