9
I never saw my grandma again.
I never smelled her cooking again, felt her hugs, never argued with her about old books while she braided my hair.
“Marrying the man for Pemberley is all well and good, but you know, eventually he’s going to say something else offensive, or rude, or just annoying. Elizabeth should have just murdered Mr. Collins and assumed his identity. It’s a humble life, but at least you don’t have to wear a bonnet.”
“You know, Lulu, sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”
“But the highest form of intelligence.” My canned response.
She’d snort and roll her eyes. “Oscar Wilde. That boy was such a self-important little brat. All the best writers are, I suppose. But still.”
It was a conversation we’d had a hundred times. A thousand. Even just thinking about it felt like settling into a routine, comfortable and well worn.
Everything about Grandma was comfortable and well worn.
Her smiles, her sass, her tattoos, which were old enough to have transformed from hard lines into blooming watercolors.
I owed her so much. She raised me after my mum—her daughter—died.
I was pretty sure that was when the house started to fill up.
Her place had never been Spartan, but once I was there, stuff just kept coming and coming and coming.
I was a kid. I didn’t think it was bad, just weird. I never talked to her about it.
There was a lot we never got to talk about.
But I guess that’s what death is. A conversation interrupted. A thread left hanging. A long, uncertain note as the pianist turns the page and realizes that the song is over, cut short a couple of bars before the crescendo.