Crumpled fives, wrinkled 10s, a small hill of quarters, and three envelopes labeled « Rings » in my grandma’s careful cursive. Grandma Margaret sat across from me in her favorite navy cardigan.
She was sliding coins into neat little stacks with fingers thinner than they had been last Christmas.
The living room table looked like a tiny bank had exploded across it.
Her thumb kept drifting to the empty spot on her left hand.
I don’t think she even knew she was doing it.
« Sixty-two, 72, 82, » she murmured, then paused. « Wait. Did I already count that pile? »
« You counted it twice, Grandma. »
« Well, shoot, » she laughed under her breath. « Chemo brain math. Everything turns into soup! »
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