Memoir
The ginger tabby made biscuits on
her lap, making itself comfortable in the soft folds of her lap quilt.
A cup of chamomile tea steamed in
a delicate teacup.
Her grandchildren had asked if
she would write her memoirs, and she had smiled and said, “Of course.”
At 85 years old, her hair was
white and gently curled around her face, held back by a baby blue ribbon that
matched her eyes.
She was the ultimate grandma; a
sweet guiding light smelling of baby powder and chocolate chip cookies.
She started writing.
“Everyone I ever had sex with is
dead.”
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