There is a room in the lower left side of my memory palace, steampunk-ish with machinery and my grandfather, the wizard. He gives me blocks of wood to smooth with a plane while he creates lamps and cabinets. I making the wood curls that I add to my stash. He shows me new boards he's scored--maple, cherry, mahogany, and points out the beauty of grain and knots, trails I travel as I breathe the heady smell of wood. Later we wash our hands with gritty Boraxo that we scoop out from a tin perched on his industrial sink. He puts me in his big smooth-seated Pontiac and we drive to Hank and Al's. The middle aged brothers always make a big deal out of me, Ralph's little girlfriend. I love to wander the aisles inhaling that singular scent of a 1960's hardware store, which is nothing like Home Depot. I love palling with my Gramp.
One floor up, I ask a last time for Gramp to read me the Sunday comics. The highlight of my preschool Sundays was to climb onto his lap as he read Beetle Bailey to Mary Worth. I didn't care that I didn't und
erstand some of the stories or that they were boring like Judge Parker. Gramp's favorite is Dick Tracy and mine is Little Orphan Annie, despite her scary, empty eyes. I ask that last time, and he tells me I'm too big now, like I should know better. I don't feel very big at all. What is happening with Annie, I wonder. Maybe I am Annie now.
