My grandmother, Evelyn, had not even been buried for 48 hours before my family turned into scavengers. The worst part is, I do not mean that as a metaphor.
I mean, my aunts were literally putting sticky notes on lamps and arguing over who got the dining room set while the smell of her lavender hand cream still lingered in the house.
I am the youngest granddaughter. I am 26. My grandmother used to call me her “last little surprise” because I came along years after the rest of the cousins.
Maybe that is why I always felt more like her shadow than her grandchild.
While everyone else grew up and got busy and visited on holidays if it was convenient, I kept showing up on Saturdays.
I was the one who learned how to peel apples the way she liked, in one long curling strip.
I was the one who stood beside her in that yellow kitchen while rain tapped against the windows and she said things like, “A pie crust can sense fear, Nora, so if you panic, it panics.”