She made me read it out. Roses are red, violets are blue, we don’t want a sick grandma, Christmas is not for you. Marisol stood by my son’s chair looking pleased with herself, and Trevor laughed until he had to wipe his eyes, and my grandchildren watched my face to learn what they were supposed to feel. I had cooked most of that dinner. My grandmother’s angel was on the tree. When I asked where exactly I was meant to spend Christmas, my daughter-in-law said there were places for people in my situation.
Eight months of early stage Parkinson’s, during which I drove, cooked, paid my bills and ran my own house, and every tremor had been quietly filed as evidence. Trevor asked what if I fell, what if I left the stove on, and he did not look worried. He looked prepared.
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