You were just learning to walk, my grandmother told my mom. And your grandaddy, he would be so scared. He would put his arms on either side of you while you wobbled around. Never wanting you to get hurt. Always wanting to catch you should you fall.
She paused, and looked beyond my mother. She stared at something none of us could see. Maybe she was looking straight into the past, into a time none of us could remember excepting herself. I saw her give the slightest shrug.
But that’s just how you learn to walk, she said.
She might forget if she’s eighty-four or eight-five. She might forget what day of the week it is. She might even forget what she ate for breakfast.
But she’s a wise one, my grandmother.