My grandmother would nestle herself in the tiny, cluttered room that was pretty much being used for storage, away from the company tipsy and bloated from celebrating in the living room and finish up her work to submit the following afternoon. I'd find her and assuming she wants my company as much as I want hers, I'd sit down across from her and mind my own business. It was cold with the poor insulation of these homes despite the stove set next to us. I'd fall asleep and I'd find myself wrapped in a familiar blanket that had once belonged to my grandmother's mother. She tells me I'll catch a cold and I should go to bed if I'm tired. I refuse and wait for her to finish.
She used to say how I'm going to stop coming back after I grow up and find a boyfriend. I was a child dreaming endless dreams of music and art and sweets. At the time I didn't believe her.
Now she lives a caged life with a depressed daughter in a different apartment. It's a better home but a worse life.
Right now I wish she was wrong.
xx 11:53 p.m.