Zane
"Every time," Grandma whispered in her frail voice. "Every single time you get sad or scared... know that I'll always be with you." Her knotted arthritic hand touched my face. "I love you, Zane."
"But..." I sobbed against the blankets, the blankets that smelled like her vanilla perfume and roses. "How will I know you're with me? How will I know if I can't feel you!" She was dying. And it was my fault. She always gave me her food. Every single time. She said I was a growing boy. And I was always hungry, but she needed meatloaf too! I told her so all the time, but she said she was fine with just a few bites.
She always gave me the bigger portion.
And watered down her own milk so I'd have some for dinner.
It was one of my favorites. Cold milk.
Memories of better days assaulted me.
