I like that when the first rain of spring comes it melts the snow on the drive to my parents’ house in Watkins Glen and the little unnamed waterfalls appear all over. I drove there this morning in the rain and went to see my grandmother who doesn’t know who I am. But we all–my dad and aunt and uncle and me–had pizza and homemade walnut brownies and tried to think of how best to tell her that her husband died last night in long-term care. His sister and brother didn’t know yet, so for them he was still alive. A train went by while we ate, the deep rattle of it. Seneca Lake looked old and calm anyway. We looked through long-hidden pictures and tried to write names and dates and places on them so that people alive long after we’ve died will better understand what happened to us.
More to Explore
