Sterling Silver

“And we’ll come see you every week” were the words of his parents’ pitch to sell grandma on the practicality of her new home, away from home. Rest home.

This for a woman of three score and ten who never tired of Green Eggs and Ham or the rhetoric of Sam I Am in a voice that said: because you’re worth it.

A furtive glance at knotty pine walls and halls that echo three generations of holidays, births, and deaths — masked by short breaths and preoccupation with a twelve-year-old Calico.

“And we’ll find him a good home too” father adds in his best maple syrup voice, while mother grins and gives his thigh a bravo pat, as if to say: “way to go dear, I almost forgot about the cat.”

Spots of conversation invade the back seat where liver-spotted hands and young skin meet and meld in their own magnificent tribute to the value of a moment. Whispered: “check the market value” and “Aunt Joyce could use a new dinette” and “no, I haven’t called the realtor yet.”

A maze of halls and weathered faces, urine stench and the lingering traces of “I promise I’ll come on Sunday” and the absence of dreams. Skirt crisp and white that squish squish squishes before flipping the light switch and making the grand presentation as though “someone is a very lucky girl!”

Eighty square feet — like a cell, with a dumpster view and a charming bell that guarantees more squish, squish, squishing. An unpacked suitcase in a quiet room where memories fade and winter’s gloom lingers like an autumn fly. Sharp eyes fall on a favorite sweater as gnarled fingers search and discover a letter, book, and photo: Dear Gram, So you can read to me every night! Love Sam.