Ninety-five

My grandma wanted me to leave her the hell alone. I was ready to curl up on the hotel-grade armchair in the hospice room’s corner, camp out for the night with a book and my iPhone charger. Go, she said over and over again. Go home, come back in the morning, I hope I go in my sleep.

So she went before I came back in the morning, and my phone rang with the news as my sanitizer-slick fingers hit the button for the elevator that would take me to her floor.

She was hilarious and whip-smart, and back in the day she was foxy. She was the baby of the family who took care of herself from when she was eight years old, when her mother died. We were closer than most grandmothers and granddaughters are, I think. At least that’s the impression I get when I explain to people what’s happened.