It is your grandmother's birthday. Nine years since she passed, and you still carry her in the trill of your laugh, in your delicate warmth in hosting a coffee. You spent 32 years with her voice in your ears; this does not disappear just because the voice grows silent. We live on in the people who love us. We order another round of bourbon drinks, call it research, and watch the early evening sun trickle through the leaves. You spend money like you had it. In the corner of your eye, the road beckons on the horizon.
You are not there yet, but soon, soon, you will be ready to claim it for
your own.
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