« Did I already count that pile? »
Behind her, the old Singer machine sat on its little side table, a basket of hemmed trousers waiting by the door for Mrs. Peterson to pick up on Thursday. Grandma had been stitching for the same handful of loyal clients for longer than I’d been alive.
« That nice lady who owns the shop downtown sent someone to drop off two more blouses yesterday, » she said, dropping another quarter onto the stack. « She always overpays. I keep telling her to stop. »
The old Singer machine sat on its little side table.
« Maybe she likes you. »
« Maybe she has bad math, too. »
I smiled and watched her line up the bills again. This August, she and Grandpa Harry were supposed to celebrate 50 years of marriage. The year before, that milestone had felt uncertain when the cancer diagnosis came.
Grandpa first. Six months later, her. Like a curse following them.
« Maybe she likes you. »
Chemo took nearly 40 pounds off each of them, along with their hair, appetites, and strength.
