My grandmother rarelycalled us by our real namesbut you knew when she meant you.I was the youngest girlso I had the most names. Yesher sentences had alwaystrailed off into little mysteries to mebut when she was dying
and the doctor asked herwhat month it wasshe said Novemberand I thought oh, good,so she isn’t dyingshe knows it’s November.But she didn’t know the year.And she didn’t know the President.The doctor left. It was just me,my brother and my grandmother
and the CNN anchor sayingJFK was killed fifty years agothis month,my grandmother sayingdo they know who shot him yet,my brother saying no,and death pulling its drawstring,closing us all inside.
This is drawn from “Joy Is My Middle Name.”
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