Birthday

Last week. I was freakishly busy, and so I almost didn't visit my grandmother on her birthday. "I'll go next week," I rationalized. "She won't know the difference." But my goody-goody nature won out, and I made the drive.

When I arrived, my grandmother was sleeping, but she sat up and said, "I thought you were coming today. That's why I left the light on." Later, she asked me if I'd been "galavanting."

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"How old are you, Nana?" I asked.

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"60!" she told me, all wide eyed and frankly a little annoyed at my birthday singing and happy clapping. Sixty must be the age she used to imagine as "old" and so she held on to that number. Usually, I agree with Nana, but somehow I couldn't today.

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"You're 87," I told her.

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"Oh my," she said. "Oh my."

We sat in the garden for about 30 minutes. I was ready to camp out in her room, but she told me very firmly, "Thank you for coming. It was so nice to see you. I'll walk you to the door. I'm going back to bed!"

About this picture, she said: "You have a nice memory."

I said, "thank you."

She continued, "You'll have something nice to remember sitting in the garden."

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And I do.