My mother’s mother was the oldest of four sisters. She was a mean card player and ate popcorn and candy bars for dinner. She never told me she loved me, but wept as we drove to the airport.
She called me “sis” when she wanted to get my attention. “Sis, either pay attention or don’t play,” when I’d goof off at Rummy. “You’re tracking sand in here, sis,” when I didn’t rinse off my feet from the beach. And our last phone call, when I told her I’d gotten engaged. “Don’t get married, sis.” A cough. “Men aren’t worth it.”