Silence. Then, a wet, rattling cough from the kitchen.
I expected her to be embarrassed. I expected her to be angry at the mud ruining her Sunday best. Instead, she sat there in the calf-deep water, looked up at me, and began to laugh. Not a polite chuckle, but a deep, belly-shaking roar that echoed off the cypress knees. My Grandmother -Grandma- you-re wet- -Final- By...
Fast-forward thirty years. I am forty-five. Grandma is ninety-seven and has outlived everyone except me and a cousin who lives in Oregon and sends checks instead of visits. The farmhouse is gone—sold after her second husband died—and she lives now in a long-term care facility called Golden Pines, which is less golden and more pine-scented bleach. Silence
Grandma had a wicked sense of humor, and I cherish the many laughter-filled moments we shared. She would often joke about my clumsiness, my silly antics, or my questionable fashion choices. Her teasing was always done in a loving and playful way, and it helped me develop a sense of humor and not take myself too seriously. I expected her to be angry at the