One of my favorite things to do is drive grandmothers around.
They’re not my grandmothers, of course, who are both long gone. But they are someone’s.
I open the passenger door for them, though they fuss at me not to. I turn on the heated seats and I help with the seatbelt, which can be cranky. I drive slowly, giving us room.
Questions I’d like to ask are: Who loved you most? Who did you love most? Who did you wish to love that you couldn’t?
I don’t ask, of course. But somewhere, lodged underneath their words, are the answers.
Cynthia Hamill 