We wound our way to my Grandma's house, by the Clackamas River. I am dizzy, taking in the leaves. I don't want them to fall off; autumn is too short.
I sit with Grandma while my Mom greets boarders, picking up their dogs. She is delivering bad news, the business is closing. Lexi and Zack run around with the final litter of puppies, chase a cat. I spent my childhood, on that same grass.
Grandma talks about going through papers. I read something Papa wrote for church, years ago. There's an old scholarship application, and my sister's high school transcript. She keeps everything.
She is adamant she needs her Jeep and nods off, mid-sentence. She is helpless, and somehow still obstinate. I can't figure it out. She doesn't want to let go, move to my parents' property in a place of her own. She asks me how would I like it if I had to move?
And I quietly remind her that Greg and I are considering it right now. He is working in another town more and more. I talk to him on the phone and here's what I picture: the hollowed out mall, off the I-5, where we stretch our legs and pick up a coffee when we go visit his parents. I don't want to go there.
More than that, I am content here. I finally have friends I adore, healthy kids; family and a church home. But I don't have Greg so the talks go on.
She says to no one, "I don't want to go."
I say to you, "I don't want to go."
And a lot could happen before spring.
Nothing is set in stone in the corporate world - this I know firsthand.
I don't know if Grandma will see spring at all.
But we both look out the window, watch the wind pick up the leaves and toss them about.
It seems familiar.
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