By Laura Powell

My mother was angry. Her hands shook as she dropped the picture she was holding onto her mother’s lap. Without a word, she stalked out of the living room and into the kitchen. A moment later, the low hum of the food processor filled the room followed by a loud smack of a kitchen cabinet.

I looked at my grandmother sitting across from me, hunched over in her favorite puffy pink high-backed armchair. She looked down at the picture my mother just showed her and then out at the rain through the big bay window above the couch where I sat. Her eyes were slightly out of focus as she tried in vain to peer into the past. My throat tightened.

It’s OK, I thought. If I were you, I would want to forget too. 

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