She had always expected grandchildren. She had expected, even as a young girl, to live deep into her twilight surrounded by chittering, smiling faces. Even before she had thought of having children or even knew what that meant, she had expected grandchildren. She had expected full tables at thanksgiving and long lists of names at Christmas.
She could always see it so vividly.
Sitting next to a man who would have looked remarkably like a potato whose skin had gone loose after too long in a cupboard. She would have borne the years with more grace and would have had tight skin that shone like a mirror as it stretched across her forehead. She had expected to buy him little sweaters that he would have worn as he sat in front of a typewriter, or sat in his favorite chair reading the paper or a book that he loved. The sweaters would have always been soft against her face when he hugged her unexpectedly in the middle of a frigid morning. Continue reading