Part Twenty-Eight: Nine Weeks

Forty-nine days passed between my grandmother’s funeral and the second of December.

In those forty-nine days I did the following.

I dug a passbook out of a grave with my fingers and carried it around in a towel.

I read thirty-one years of deposits onto a legal pad, twice.

I built a theory about a pickup truck and spent nine days on it and was wrong.

I traced three embroidered napkins and understood none of them.