Where it Comes From

I can remember walking into my grandmother’s room at around 4 in the afternoon when she was napping. From my perspective at the end of the bed I could see her feet in completely worn out slippers. Her toes bent in ways toes were not supposed to bend. She snored with her mouth open. Her hands were folded on her belly. She looked like she had been asleep for a hundred years, like she was growing roots into the bed.

Gram? I’d say.

The snoring would stop abruptly. Her eyelids would peel open.

What is it? What happened? And then she’d be sitting up, putting on her glasses, her feet on the floor.

I’m hungry.

Oh, she’d say and then, taking my hand, led me into the kitchen.

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