Lately, when I ride the train, I think about my grandmother. Maybe it's because I sit in the swaying car, studying the other passenger's reflections in the windows--a curiosity I'm sure I inherited from her. Maybe the other old women with their thin bones and draped skin and lipsticked mouths remind me of her. Or maybe it's just the only time I let my mind wander long enough to rest on her memory: on the way she answered the telephone with a clearing of her throat, on her small chuckle I hope I can pull off as an old woman, on the way I never wanted to hug her too tight because her body felt like a stiff brown leaf meant just to hold in your palm.
[Image: Dorothy Spry circa 1960]