It occurred to me that all stories have unhappy endings. If you read on in any story, past the written word, there is inevitable loss in the end. No good time endures; no one lives forever.
Rosemary climbed the stairs to the furniture section faster than I could, and when I arrived at the top she was sitting on an L-shaped sofa that was the color of amber, lighter than her own dark brown eyes which smiled at me as she bounced gently on the soft cushions. She patted the seat beside her in invitation.
I sobbed unrelentingly for three hours the night before friends came to help me move the last items out of our house on the Farm River.
Last week, I zoomed with my grandson on his birthday, and I asked him how he felt about being 20. “Nanna,” he replied, “I don’t know if I’m ready to take on all the aspects of being an adult—things like paying taxes and all that.” He swooped his hand through the abundant locks of hair that fell over his forehead, as if to rid himself of such thoughts.