It’s not sad, she says to herself, voice lulled to a whisper, eyes tiptoeing across the kitchen floor.

Outside the hot California sun was cooking up the concrete and the old radio played the Giants game. Grandpa sat in his theater chairs, stoic like a marble statute, his oversized black sunglasses taking over his face.

Inside, Grammy had the fortune of going about her day as if nothing had happened – she walked to the cooler, grabbed the frozen box of eclairs that she saved for special moments, and called the Minnesota girls inside.

Grandpa wasn’t invited because of his diabetes and inability to have difficult conversations. The words she used to explain why their father wasn’t showing up were carefully chosen and arranged in such a way to minimize heartache – hers, not theirs. Her disappointment in her son, their father, was often too much for her to acknowledge.



©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved

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