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Tuesday 200 - #28

Grandma settled into the pew and pulled out her knitting.

Pastor Sullivan cleared his throat, looked her way, and, unacknowledged, began. “We’re here today to celebrate the life of Louis Shafer …”

Click, click, click. The blue yarn wrapped around her fingers matched the veins of her surprisingly nimble hands. She didn’t look up, or drop a stitch, for the entire service.

“You okay?” I whispered.

“Of course, dear. I spent the last 57 years with him, and the last way I want to remember Grandpa is lying in that godforsaken box. You’ll be minding Winston?” She never cared for Winston.

Sometimes it’s just easier to preoccupy yourself.

A month later, and I'm still not sleeping. How will they find me? Curled up in my favorite chair, remote in my hand like they found Lou? Alone in a hospital bed, tubes snaking from every orifice, the beep beep beep of machines keeping slow cadence with my gradual demise? Perhaps beneath a cross-town bus I didn’t see because something shiny caught my eye.

I lie there wondering, still as a corpse lest I disturb Winston, who’s blissfully snoring atop my legs, chasing the occasional rabbit.

Tomorrow I’m buying Knitting for Dummies.

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