Grandma Is that you, on the stairs? Beckoning me, just out of reach.

Am I on the computer again? Forever preoccupied. Or have I remembered, for a solitary moment, that I am made up of traces of your fingertips brushing hair from my eyes.

Grandma Look around. There are still so many stories to tell.

Don’t you remember summer nights, folding laundry? Watching three little grandkids racing through empty parking lots, imagining the taste of the sky.

Grandma Will you come down now? Carefully now! Into my arms.

Otherwise, to not catch you would be akin to dashing away whatever remnants of you I have left.