My grandmother is old.

This was not always the case. When I was small, she would pack up my things for me and take me to Canada, to Georgia and to the beach. She only ever smacked my hand one time and she never yelled at me. And in the morning, she made me breakfast just how I liked it.

Now she can’t lift a saucepan without trouble.

I find myself wondering strange things about her now: How does she fold her fitted sheets so perfectly?  What does she do to make her sweet potatoes so large?  How did she get so many blooms on her rosebush? Why do her eggs taste so much better than mine?

I don’t ask her these questions. It feels wrong to.

Instead, when I wake in the morning, I will walk to her room across the hall and stoop low enough to hug her with my head resting on her shoulder. Her skin will smell like Lever soap and some jasmine based perfume. I will ask her if she would make the eggs since her’s taste so much better than mine.

She’ll ask if I want her to show me how to make them.

I will say no.