grandpa, do you remember when i was about twelve and i came to kilburn for the whole summer? one night, grandma and i were in the parlour watching 'the good neighbors' on the BBC when you ran past us wearing nothing more than boxers and an undershirt. waving a large net, you went up and down both sets of stairs shrieking something loud yet indecipherable. as it turns out, some bats had found their way into the house. i remember that grandma just chucked and cuddled me closer, as if she had seen you do this a thousand times. and it was only when the bats decided to fly down and tangle themselves in our afgan, that i was struck by the beauty of grandma's laugh. deep and smoky, yet unmistakably feminine. it's as if her laugh came from a part of the throat that doesn't exist in most people.
i can hear it now. can you?
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Just read your piece to Robert. He became quiet tearful, then said: "she writes a good description, doesn't she?"
Breathing has become much more difficult for Robert. He can hardly make it from his chair to the kitchen table, even with the oxygen machine on.
Cold and frosty here this morning. I'm going to my third funeral in a week. Then to Woodstock to try out the new highway.
Wilhelmine
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