when i was young, she was still bright and healthy. the drive took forever, the monotonous rhythm of telephone poles emblazoned into my five- or ten-year-old mind. she had a long rolling lawn that led to nowhere, housing bees and artichoke plants to sting my tender barefoot skin. one year, she swept me off a cool leather couch to waltz frail circles in her living room. her hands were soft as a newborn kitten, helpless and blind. her hair flew out of its bun and trailed behind us as if it regretted out passing. her cheek pressed against mine and my awkard adolescent legs knocked into hers. she hummed under her breath and laughed like a child as she released me back to the relative saftey of the rest of my family, gathered for the occasion - a collection of cousins aspiring to be hippies, a huge drooling dog, and a great uncle who called himself my fairy godmother, crowded into her house for a celebration of her birthday and the nation's. we sat out on the lawn and watched fireworks paint the sky, burning afterimages into our retinas, making my baby brother cry.

i remember how bright the sun was in contrast to her papery skin, how devestated i was when we visited her in the nursing home a few years later, and she didn't recognize me.