The year was 1997. I sat in the backseat of a tiny Toyota Corolla with my perfumed, slightly purpled hair Granny Hamlett as my neighbor. She was seated directly behind my dad at the wheel whose eyes searched for fellow road warriors and interstate truckers to shake his head at.
My grandmother suffers from dementia. These are my letters to her. Your fingernails were long and well manicured. Long, gentle strokes you made on my tiny back.