By Angela Noel
August 3, 2017
“She who laughs at Grammy cries at the reading of the will,” says my grandmother, draped in curlers and a silken turquoise robe.
Lugged from some hidden corner, she plunks a mutant plastic Easter egg on the kitchen counter. She opens the domed contraption, extending its long neck. Settling herself in her barstool, she flips a switch on the device. Whirring, then a huff like a deep sustained sigh, begins. Beneath the dome, her head, to the lips, disappears.
And though risking my inheritance, I laugh a little. Countless moves, place to place over decades, and this hair dryer remains–a relic of beauty from the semi-ancient past.
And now, right this second, she sings softly to herself.
* * *
I return to that moment, my inheritance, year after year.
Your turn: What gifts of memory have your grandparents imparted?