my grandmother is playing the piano downstairs in the middle of the night, her hands moving furiously across the keys, because she cannot sleep, because the cancer is eating her body from the inside out, because she can.

my grandmother used to hang up the xmas crafts i made in bluebirds year after year, my shaky signature fading on the paper plates.

my grandmother used to swallow handfuls of aspirins and wear fuschia lipstick. she smelled of powder and crocheted things.

my grandmother's house is in salem, only i can't ever remember which one it is. a family of deaf people lives in it now. i circle the block looking to remember, hoping she will open the screen door and let me inside.