Because writing is time travel. And writing is space travel.
Because today I felt my grandma's hands again, the ones I miss so much, the ones that sliced the watermelon, baked the brisket, wrapped the gifts, held open the big Jaws towel for me after the pool, unlocked the enormous garage door, put down colorful, smiling tiles in Rummikub, pointed past the lemon tree toward the Palm Springs mountainside, just outside her winter trailer park she said we could climb, brushed the hair out of my face so I could see what she saw and love what she loved
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