2005-09-26 - 8:43 a.m.
I like to remember that my grandmother kept cookies in orderly stacks in a large tupperware cake holder. On top of the green metal bread box that said, "Bread" in curly letters.
She had cancer a lot, and when I was four I remember pushing on the foam breast where the real one used to be, asking, "Why can't you feel it? Why?" I hate that I did that, even though I was only four and didn't even know the word, "breast".
I hate that I did that so much.
I miss her. Eleven years and I miss her.
(She read trashy romance novels and ran away when she was young to the city where she flirted with sailors and worked in a bakery, wore dark lipstick and she sang loudly while she ironed, her ponderous hips and massive arms strong and enormous in her paper-thin gingham housedresses. Her one day old brother had died in those arms and later she would be the only thing keeping me in school clothes and the only thing keeping my grandfather alive.)
