[a difficult conversation.]

i need to keep warm so i bury under blankets fluffy and extravagant fabrics, trying to stay warm even in the thick of summer’s heat.

“Yea, I guess you’re right,” she says slowly. “It’s true I never hugged you, but that’s because you all just climbed on top of me

I just laid there, and the three of you found a place next to me, on me and made yourself warm.”

“I guess I never realized I never hugged.”

she reminded me that her mother was always busy and put others first.

so she put me first. she put the three of us first. but never learned how to hug.

so I learned to hold myself.

she tells me stories, but they ain’t mine. she puts them on top of me, finds places to lay them, next to me, on me, when i’m just lying there.

she remembers, but i remember too and the stories differ.her story not my story.

grandma also learned to hug herself, on nights she was cold while writing. on the days the wind was wild and she covered her children. on evenings we baked apple cobbler and sang hymns.

but that’s my story, not her story. i remember but she remembers too, and the stories differ.

my story, her story, ours but not ours. we learn to hold, still learning to hug.