Nan’s first floor apartment is at the end of a long bare hallway. She stands in her doorway and waves me in. I can’t understand why she is not shattered by the effort. She has withered since the last time I worked with her in our writing class. We hug. I hold a bundle of cool sticks in my arms.
The apartment is featureless, except for two finely woven sisal knots hanging on the white wall above the couch. I remember her telling the writing circle that her family was helping her move into an apartment. It would be easier to keep up than the house. The kids would hang on to the house, maybe rent it out for a while, till she could return home.